Triumphant
by Aalon
Summary: The third and final installment of the Monster Trilogy, set in Season 7. This continues the AU tale of Richard Castle's disappearance at the end of Season 6, leading into Season 7. This picks up at the conclusion of Recluse. Please read Monster and Recluse first, as spoilers are throughout.
1. Chapter 1

**Triumphant: Chapter 1**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 **A/N:** Happy New Year to everyone! This is the third – and final – story in the Monster Trilogy. You know the disclaimer – if you have not read the two previous installments (Monster, and Recluse), please do so first, as this is not a stand-alone story. Thank you again to all who have been following those two stories – an AU take on the end of Season 6/beginning of Season 7 disappearance of Richard Castle, and the aftermath of those events.

 _History has proven, time and again that - whether through the courageous, advancing marines on the Gilbert Islands in the Pacific Islands, or the heroic, ostracized drivers of the Red Ball Express – the road to victory, the path to triumph is forged through hidden stories of bravery under fire – sometimes friendly fire – and all too often, hidden in details that are far too mundane to listen to, but absolutely necessary for survival._

 _ **Thursday morning - October 23, 2014, 8:34 a.m., New York City, at Former Senator William Bracken's Residence**_

"I don't like this," he mutters angrily. "Not one bit."

He is frustrated this morning. After watching last evening's stunning news broadcast, the politician and his wife spent a restless night, with little sleep. He doesn't like surprises – surprises never turn out well. He likes things meticulously planned, and once planned, you stick to the plan. No surprises – everything runs smoothly. Why Elena doesn't seem to understand this very simple concept is beyond him. Unbeknownst to him, of course, Elena Markov _is_ sticking with the plan. Only it is her plan, not his.

So yeah, he's frustrated, and Elizabeth Bracken doesn't blame him. The truth is, she is every bit as frustrated. She's just much better at hiding it.

"I don't like it either, Will," she admits, and that is an understatement. It's not often that she so vehemently disagrees with one of Elena's chosen tactics. But this is one of those times.

"Why would she choose this M.O.?" he asks aloud, to no one in particular. "I mean, sure, the media now thinks that this is all being perpetrated by the same individual who went all berserk back in May, looking for the damn writer. That means that none of this can come back to us," he muses aloud. "I get that."

"She's playing to the media, Will," Elizabeth tells him. "You know this."

"Stupid, predictable reporters," he mutters under his breath. "So easily bent and swayed."

"Careful, Will," she admonishes him lightly. "Those are some of their more favorable qualities that we enjoy exploiting so effectively."

He offers a small, bewildered smile. Still, this doesn't make any sense. Why would she choose this approach? It is far too dangerous. There is far too much risk. It's just too visible.

"Liz, the only thing this is going to do is draw out whoever was actually butchering those mobsters all those months ago, when you captured Castle," he says aloud, "and you know that as well as I do. That's a problem. We don't need whoever that is running rampant through the streets again. We played that to our advantage last time, but this time it can be problematic for us – for you and me."

She simply nods her head in agreement. She wishes he would shut up right now. This has always been Will's main problem. He just talks too damn much. Yak, yak, yak, incessantly. Oh, he's good at it, she knows, talking. But at the right time, under the right circumstances, for crying out loud. And those circumstances usually involve bright lights, rolling television cameras, waving flags and cheering throngs.

But alone, when it is time to strategize, to scheme?

No, the politician needs to stop talking and let the professional planners do their work.

That said, she also knows that her husband is absolutely right, and this is her concern as well. The _press_ may think that the same person is at work again, killing New York City mobsters as a way of sending a message, as a way of finding a once-again missing Richard Castle. That's what the press thinks. But she is not worried about the press. There are at least four people on the planet who know this to be blatantly false. Will, Elena and, of course, herself are three of them.

It's that fourth, unknown person that concerns her – and Will.

Whoever conducted that now-legendary, savage campaign back in May knows that a new player is in town, running a copy-cat scheme. And he – or she – probably isn't the type to see a copy-cat campaign as 'flattering' or 'complimentary'. No, this is just as likely to draw that unknown and highly dangerous person back into the picture. That's not a good thing. That person disappeared earlier this year once Richard Castle was found. He – or she – needs to stay disappeared.

Right now, the last thing Sheila Elizabeth Bracken needs is an unknown, uncontrollable wild card reinserting themselves back into the fray.

Their silent musings are interrupted by the ringing of William Bracken's burner phone. Neither has to wonder who is calling. He picks it up on the third ring.

"Well, I have to say, that was a bit of a surprise," he greets her, composing himself quickly as he puts the call on speaker, so his wife can hear. "I hope you're willing to share whatever plan I know is percolating in that mind of yours."

She smiles at the other end, knowing he is agitated, and struggling to contain himself. Good. That's just the way she wants him.

"Yes, hello to you also Senator," she greets him in return.

"Ex-Senator," he replies.

"Semantics," she counters. "And yes, that was meant to be a surprise. Understand, if it is a surprise to you, then it will definitely be a surprise to him as well."

"Him?" Elizabeth interjects. "Who exactly is this 'him' we are talking about, Elena?"

"The man who rampaged through your city earlier this year, of course, looking for Mr. Castle," Elena deadpans.

"You know who he is?" Elizabeth asks, surprised.

"He goes by many names," Elena replies easily, knowing how unnerving her calm demeanor can be to the party on the other end. "Last I know of, he is still going by the name of Hunt. And I mean to draw him out into the open."

"Are you insane?" the former Senator asks, exasperated. "What possible reason would you have for doing such a thing, Elena?" He shakes his head, offering his wife a confused look. Neither of them need a crazed lunatic running wild in the city. Not now.

"Rest assured – if you are going to take out the detective, then you need to account for the writer," Elena explains, her voice short and clipped. "And if you want to neutralize the writer, then I promise you – you are going to have to deal with Hunt."

"And you know this how?" Elizabeth questions, now more intrigued than bothered. She knows their assassin to be anything but compulsive. She meticulously plans out her tactics – many moves in advance. For her, life is nothing more than a chess board, and she has become a master at predicting and neutralizing movements. So if Elena believes this Hunt is one who needs to be neutralized, then Elizabeth is not going to argue the point with her.

Her methods, however, are leaving much to be desired.

"Last year, not too long after Christmas," Elena replies, "Alexis Castle was kidnapped. It initially appeared to be a case of bad luck – with the young woman just being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Eventually, however, it was proven that the younger Castle was the original target all along - part of an elaborate plan on the part of some . . . unfortunate past acquaintances of mine."

Both husband and wife suppress a shudder – his wife slightly more successful – as they hear the chuckles of the woman on the other end, which sound like ice cubes dropping into an empty glass tumbler.

Elena's 'acquaintances' as she puts it, had asked her to be a part of their scheme, counting on the woman's hand-to-hand combat skills along with her uncanny strategic thinking as a failsafe in their favor. Elena had politely declined, however, knowing full well the reputation of the CIA man her countrymen were attempting to attack. However, always thinking multiple moves in advance, Elena Markov saw their futile campaign as a means of silently observing – in action – a man that she considers to be a future adversary. Figuring their paths would cross at some point in the future, and that crossing would not be friendly, Elena chose to watch from the wings, learning his tendencies.

"The kidnapping was conducted by a group of Russians who were looking to damage Mr. Hunt for . . . past transgressions on his part," Elena continues, smiling at the other end. "They kidnapped Castle's daughter as a means of drawing him out."

"Wait a second. I heard that Castle engineered her rescue," the ex-Senator comments. Always ones to keep track of their adversaries, both Brackens recall their surprise at the novelist's ability to go to a foreign country, on his own, and retrieve his daughter from mobsters, terrorists, whatever they were. It had earned the writer some modicum of respect from the couple.

"That was the official story, yes," Elena confirms. "The true story? There was no way Richard Castle could engineer her rescue by himself – not against those men. I watched for myself, and confirmed this with . . . one of the survivors."

"Hunt helped him?" Elizabeth asks, ignoring Elena's last comment. She knows full well how Elena 'confirms' her information. "But why? What's the connection between –"

"Hunt is Alexis Castle's grandfather," Elena interrupts, smiling to herself as she sees the wheels turning on the other end of the call, as her two 'acquaintances in New York' put two and two together.

"My God," William Bracken exclaims, his hand covering his mouth.

"Is he really yours?" Elena asks, her tone mocking, then chuckles again as she gets back on task.

"Hunt is Castle's father," she tells the couple. "I suspect that his rampage through your underworld a few months ago makes much more sense now, yes?"

Elizabeth Bracken doesn't answer. She has retreated for the moment – in her mind – as she processes this new information. William is babbling about something or another, and she lifts herself off the bed where she and her husband have been relaxing for the early part of the morning since awakening. She walks toward the bathroom, stopping at the door, running a hand through her hair.

Elena, for her part, listens to the chatter from the ex-Senator and correctly assumes that his wife has moved away. Elizabeth is no fool – Elena realizes this. She respects the politician's wife. She recognizes the leverage the couple holds over her, and places that advantage squarely in the lap of the woman. She shakes those thoughts away before pulling the couple back into the conversation.

"Hunt will do anything – and I do not over-exaggerate this point – he will do _anything_ to protect his son, and his granddaughter. I trust he has proven that to you with his actions earlier this year. So drawing him out into the open – and dealing with him – will be the first step in dealing with Mr. Castle, and ultimately with his fiancée."

"Why not just take Castle's daughter?" Bracken wonders aloud, and realizes the stupidity of his thoughts immediately, as his wife actually gives him an incredulous look. On the other end of the line, the Russian assassin rolls her eyes in disbelief.

"Kidding, kidding," Bracken says quickly, trying to downplay his mistake.

"Duplicating his campaign, mimicking his earlier actions will get his attention," Elena explains. "He's not a fool. He will not come rushing blindly in. But he will take notice, and he will start planning his own campaign as a response. I mean to catch him during this planning mode."

Elena considers her adversary for a moment. She wonders – not for the first time – how she would fare against Hunt. She has no concern that she can take the man in a hand-to-hand fight. She has no concern that if she can draw him out into the open, she can take him. The problem with Hunt is – and always has been – subterfuge. The man fights from the shadows. He conducts his campaigns behind the scenes. He is rarely seen. He fights from long distance.

And then, of course, there are his toys.

No, a long-range war against this man is suicide. She has to bring him into the jungle, directly on to the battlefield where she can see him – where they face each other eye to eye.

"Anyway, the purpose of my call is complete," Elena tells the power couple. "I wanted you to know the reasoning behind my actions, as I suspect they would have caused you concern," she smiles.

"Do you think this will be enough to bring Castle and Beckett out of hiding?" Bracken asks.

"No," Elena replies honestly. "Those movements yesterday, and my movements tomorrow, these are just the sacrificing of pawns on the board as we get into position," she tells them, causing an eyebrow to raise on the ex-Senator's wife. She has not missed the 'my movements tomorrow' statement, and is now wondering what else their assassin has planned. She is also wondering just who – and what – the Russian considers to be 'pawns'.

Asking her is futile, a waste of time, and Elizabeth will not show such weakness by doing so. But her mind is wandering now, wondering just what exactly their weapon has planned.

"When will we hear from you again?" Elizabeth asks the woman brushing her concerns away for the moment. There will be time for wondering later.

"Soon, Mrs. Bracken," Elena purrs into the phone. "I promise you, it will be very soon."

The phone goes dead, and the couple exchange a look before Elizabeth turns and heads into the bathroom, preparing for the day ahead.

 _ **Thursday morning - October 23, 2014, 9:07 a.m., at the Castle's Connecticut Island Home**_

"What do you mean we aren't going back?" Richard Castle asks, the surprise evident on his face as well as in his voice. "The last thing we need is someone else dragging my name – _our_ name, babe – through the mud again."

"Better our _name_ through the mud than our _bodies_ through the street, Rick," she cautions. "This is far too obvious. Someone wants us to go back. Badly. Let's not give them what they want just yet."

"Are you sure?" Castle asks. "This is the last thing we need right now. And I'm not sure . . . I don't know if I am ready to go through this all over again."

He doesn't like the idea of some copycat dragging old nightmares out of the closet. They are in agreement, as both he and Kate know it has to be a copycat, because Jackson Hunt wouldn't resort to any such shenanigans knowing that his son is already safe and sound. Even though they never told Hunt where they are – he comes and goes and doesn't exactly leave a forwarding address – both know that Hunt is probably aware of their retreat.

Anyway, they've just begun to put all of that behind them, and now this happens?

"I'm sure, Rick," Kate tells him. "Trust me, someone is trying to pull us out of hiding – for what purpose, we don't know just yet. But what we _do_ know – what I know for certain – is that we are sitting ducks if we go back now. We don't know who wants us back, or who would be gunning for us – or how many there are. All we know is they don't know where we are – and this is their ploy to draw us out. It would be a mistake to acquiesce to them now."

"I know, but –"

"Right now they are just killing mobsters," she interrupts, a harshness to her tone. She knows how bad that sounds. It's heartless, yes, but she has a point.

"What if that's just their starting point?" he counters. "What if they come after our family next?"

"They won't, babe," she promises.

"But you don't know –"

"They won't, Rick," she repeats, "because they are already on their way here."

"To the island? Who?" he asks.

"Alexis, Martha, Dad – they're all coming here," she tells him, smiling. "I texted each of them last night, after the broadcast. And I made it ominous enough so as to not invite questions. I confirmed this morning that they left – they should be here in about an hour."

His smile is all she needs right now. She has plenty of questions – they both do – beginning with who is doing this, and why. But for now, getting their family out here to bunker down was the top priority. This will give them time to strategize . . . and act when appropriate.

"Thank you," he tells her, kissing her on the cheek. "I keep forgetting that I married brains and beauty."

"Well, I guess I need to remind you more often," she smiles in return.

"Any ideas on who this may be?" he asks. Sure, he is happy that their family is coming, and will be out of the crosshairs. He's not anxious to go off world-hunting again.

"A couple," she admits. "Jerry Tyson crossed my mind for a moment, but this doesn't really feel like him."

"I could have gone our first year of marriage without hearing that name," he mutters.

"Me too, babe," she agrees. "But I'm trying to consider all options."

"Too soon for Bracken," he muses aloud. "He has an election to win – I would hope his priorities are elsewhere."

"I'd agree, but there is not much I don't put past that man," she admits. "Then again, I admit I'm not exactly unbiased with him. I agree, though, he's not my first choice either. Not with him holding a double digit lead in the polls with the election just a couple of weeks away."

They are quiet for a moment, considering options, when Castle speaks up again.

"Then again," he counters, "perhaps this _would_ be just like Bracken. We've already immediately dismissed him as an option, for obvious reasons. Perhaps that is just what he would expect us to do."

She mulls the thought for a few seconds.

"You may be on to something," she says softly, rising from the barstool in the kitchen where they have been eating breakfast – just a snack, really, of fruits, toast and orange juice.

"Bracken felt he owed me a favor for saving his life," she begins, a timeline formulating in her mind. "He also felt like he had returned the favor by saving mine."

Her thoughts return to the mysterious Russian who showed up in the woods, viciously liberating her without breaking a sweat. The experience was both exhilarating in its sense of rescue, and alarming in its sense of effortless brutality. Her husband has his nightmares, she has hers. And in hers, the stranger who saved her life in the woods that night is an ongoing participant.

"And I could have stopped there. I could have left things as is – more or less even between us," she muses, but he stops her.

"And leave your mother's murder just hanging out there? Not a chance," he shakes his head, and she reaches over, touching his hand.

"My way of thanking him for sparing my life was to toss him in jail," she continues. "I would think he was a bit upset about that," she smiles, not fully comprehending for certain exactly how upset he – or his wife, rather – was about that little matter.

"No matter," Castle says, now rising from the barstool himself. "At least now we know one thing for certain," he tells her.

"And what's that, Mr. Castle?" she asks, with just a bit of a provocative hint that catches his attention, bringing a smile to his face.

"No one knows where we are," he replies. "If we were wondering if any of our enemies had found us, or figured out where we are – at least this proves we are still effectively off the radar."

"True," she agrees. "If someone wanted us, and knew we were here, they wouldn't have gone to such lengths back in New York. They'd be out here, after us already."

The fact that she doesn't say 'back home' when referring to New York is telling for both of them. Their island retreat, once nothing more than that – a strategic and temporary retreat allowing Castle to regroup – has become so much more. It has become home. Neither seem anxious to leave – a secondary fact that continues to surprise the couple.

He grabs her hand and they head to the door, peeling off clothes for their morning walk around the island. During the summer, it was often a morning swim, but the water is getting too cold for that now.

No matter, they have all the time in the world.

 _ **Friday morning - October 24, 2014, 4:07 a.m., in New York City**_

The first explosion rocks the large city block, awakening slumbering neighbors around the building.

Later in the day, the news reporters will babble on and on about the miraculous timing and the lack of human casualties.

Fortunately the elderly family on the second floor is away for the weekend, leaving last night, care of airline tickets from an anonymous source. Jeremy Oswald was a bit reluctant – at first – to take his wife of twenty-seven years away on an impromptu trip to the Bahamas, but how often do you win a trip – all expenses paid – to the tropics.

The single man living on the third floor works the night shift at the hospital, so there was no worry about him being home. After all, she really does not want innocents caught up as collateral damage.

As for Marco, the young man living on the fourth floor at the top of the building – well, he is far from innocent, as Elena knows well. A lieutenant of sorts in one of the crime families in the city, Marco is ruthless, known for his quick temper and hard manners with the many women in his life. If Marco makes it out alive, so be it.

If not?

Well, again, so be it.

She idly wonders again how the ridiculously-biased media will repaint this picture she has painstakingly created. There was a time - she has heard – that the news was actually reported, not opinioned. She shakes her head, weary of the fringe thinking forced upon the masses from both the left and right extremes, wondering when her adopted country fell into the role of mindless, easily-molded sheep. She chuckles, brushing those unnecessary – albeit entertaining – thoughts away, her thoughts returning to the task at hand.

Elena's eyes have an orange glow to them as she watches the flames slowly lick their way upward throughout the building, hearing the crackling sound of wood. The fire that she started up against the outer wall grew innocently – but quickly enough, just as planned. She was waiting it – a predator's look in her eyes from her vantage point across the street. That's when that first explosion hit – indicating that the flames had reached the bar area, with the hundred-plus bottles of alcohol awaiting their turn. They do not disappoint.

The smaller secondary explosions are muffled by the sound of the growing, angry fire. She watches the establishment's sign hanging on the outside of the building catch fire, the familiar shield now completely engaged with flames. She offers no expression on her face as the words 'The Old Haunt' are consumed in orange and black as smoke billows from the building, outward and upward. Lights are turning on throughout the neighborhood as windows open and heads preen outward at the sight. Doorways open as others litter out into the street in robes and sleepwear, fearful eyes searching left and right, waiting for the next explosion . . . wondering if it will be their building next.

This will hit close to home for the writer, she knows. Whether it brings him – them – out of hiding, she isn't sure. But she is fully committed to this guerilla campaign, with tactics that some would consider borderline terrorism. Tactics that are part of a much bigger strategic campaign – bigger than even her employers can fathom.

She smiles to herself, watching the flames reach high into the sky above the now fully-engulfed building. Seconds later, she turns with hands in pockets, the small hoodie covering her face, and walks at a brisk pace, away from the carnage across the street as she hears the sirens in the distance.


	2. Chapter 2

**Triumphant: Chapter 2**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 **A/N:** I'm not sure why, but none of the reviews for this story have been posted on the site – I am hoping it is a temporary glitch that will be fixed soon enough. Regardless, rest assured I am receiving alerts in my email for your reviews, and am responding to those that are signed in as users. As always, thank you for reading my stories.

Without further ado . . .

 _ **Friday Morning - October 24, 2014, 8:01 a.m., New York City, at Former Senator William Bracken's Residence**_

William Bracken sits on the edge of the mattress at the foot of his massive, king-size bed, his eyes glued to the television. The morning sunlight paints bars on the floor in front of him through the slats in the window just to his side. The markings on the floor provide a familiar and unwanted reminder of time behind bars. He shakes those thoughts away, focusing on the broadcast.

Behind him, still lying under the large comforter, is his wife, Elizabeth. She is awake, but in no hurry to leave the warmth of the covers. She keeps her eyes closed, relaxing, but is listening to the local morning news show on the television as well.

With elbows on his knees and chin in hands, the ex-Senator takes in the latest news of the fiery festivities from the wee hours from earlier this morning. He notes, with increasing interest, that it is the same reporter – Ramona something or another – that is standing outside the now-charred remains of what was once a four-story building – and what used to be the Old Haunt, at the ground floor.

"Elena's going to make a star out of that one," he muses to himself.

"What was that, Will?" his wife asks from behind him, still nestled safely under the covers.

"Nothing, love," he replies quickly, waving a hand at her to tell her to be quiet so he can hear the broadcast.

" _There were no injuries in what fire department officials are suspecting to be a case of arson,"_ Ramona Vasquez tells the viewing audience. The woman's long brown hair is flowing freely in the morning breeze, blanketed by a small, I-Love-NY beanie hat that covers the top of her head. It looks like she is wearing a bit more make-up, or perhaps it is just the lighting. The brisk autumn wind is picking up as the temperatures are beginning to drop a little early this year.

" _The upper three floors of the building were residential homes for three tenants – amazingly, none of which were home during the pre-morning hours of the blaze. That in itself is something of a miracle this morning. Downstairs, however, the same cannot be said for one of the cities older establishments. The Old Haunt, which dates back to the late 1800's, is – as you can see – no more. Officials are projecting a total loss for the building. Now normally, Andrea, this would be purely a human interest story, with the now three displaced families that we have. Families that are now homeless. Families that have lost everything. But this is far from normal, for – as many of you may already realize – the charred remains of the bar behind me belong to none other Richard Castle, New York's famed mystery novelist who – in the past five to six months has been in the news for anything and everything but his Nikki Heat novels."_

Ramona allows the camera to pan past her, focusing on the blackened and jagged remains of the building. William Bracken cannot help but smile at the guerilla tactics currently being employed by Elena Markov. Destroying Richard Castle's bar, which Bracken knows was close to the writer's heart, for reasons he is not privy to, is a stroke of ruthless genius. He surprisingly finds himself almost feeling sorry for the man – given his abduction and the sheer terror that he knows occurred on the island. And incarceration is something that William Bracken knows a thing or two about now. Combine that island stint with the total and utter destruction of his character and reputation – and now this?

"Almost makes you feel sad for the man, doesn't it?" he hears his wife say, and the words – coming from her – surprise him. It's not like Elizabeth to be empathetic to anyone, much less an adversary. But yeah, this, without question, _is_ a lot for one man to go through – and all because of who he is with.

"Almost," he grins in response, focusing once again on the reporter's words. "He should have chosen better friends and lovers."

His smile is short-lived as he hears the final words of Ramona Vasquez's on-air report.

" _Meanwhile, New York police officials are not saying much on this at this time – at least not officially – but off the record, a number of officers expressed their concern – and support - for the novelist, who it is very apparent now, Andrea, has made some serious enemies. One thing is for certain. We have probably not seen or heard the last of this."_

"Okay, that's not quite the reaction I had hoped for," Bracken says aloud, turning back toward his wife. No, burning The Old Haunt down wasn't his idea, but his hope had been that everything Elena does would accomplish two objectives: First, to force the writer and his muse out of hiding, wherever they are. And second – to continue to further damage his – and therefore, her – reputation. Clearly, that second objective is now in jeopardy, what with a now growing sympathetic police force.

Elizabeth sits up in bed now, having opened her eyes mid-way through Ramona's report, and noticing the reaction of her husband, which is identical to her own. No, she doesn't need anyone in the city feeling sorry for Mr. Richard Castle. She wants – no, she _needs_ the city to be against him. She's counting on an adversarial stance toward the writer and, by extension, Detective Kate Beckett. Her experience is that people under fire make mistakes. She wants the detective making mistakes.

She stares at her husband for a few seconds, before plopping backwards onto the pillows, pulling the covers up over her head. She will think about that later, once Elena calls again. For now, she wills her mind to drift back to last night's more pleasant festivities, and the exuberant physicality of her husband. She likes his . . . performance . . . when he is agitated. She sighs contentedly, and closes her eyes and shuts her ears off to the now-white noise now coming from the television.

 _ **Friday morning - October 24, 2014, 10:13 a.m., at Richard Castle's Island Home in Connecticut**_

"I'm so sorry, Dad," Alexis Castle almost whispers to her father. They sit at the breakfast table, the five of them, all quiet for the most part. All are aware of the new status Castle's old bar. The place where he wrote much of his first published novel. The corner booth where he often lamented his arms-length relationship with a certain detective. The place where friendships had been forged and further cemented.

Next year, Alexis had planned to start bartending there – not to supplement income as a college student, but instead to get the opportunity to see real lives in action, to meet strangers who weren't her age, weren't in school. She had been looking forward to this for almost six months now. While no one wants to be kidnapped, the young woman learned a few things about herself in Paris during that personal trial. Just as she learned a few things during her internship with the police department, working with Lanie Parrish all those years ago. She was looking forward – with great anticipation – to bartending at her dad's bar.

"I'm sorry too, Pumpkin," he tells her. "I know you were looking forward to working there."

"No, Dad, it has nothing to do with that," she replies quickly, immediately noting how her father takes in his own deep, personal loss by focusing on how it impacts someone else. So typical of her father.

"I know how much that old place meant to you," she continues. "I just can't believe everything that is happening this year. I mean, really, this is getting ridiculous."

"Your father has upset the universe," Martha offers with a smirk and a generous wave of the hand, bringing an eye roll from both her son and his wife.

"I know . . . I know," he muses, ignoring his mother and addressing his daughter's comments. He rubs two large hands through his longer-than-usual hair. There is evidence of a days-old four o'clock shadow on his face, which is tremendous progress according to Samantha. Dr. Peraza had noted Castle's almost ritualistic need to shave the first thing in the morning and right before bed each night – almost a predictable response to one held in captivity for so long. At the time of his rescue/escape, Castle had sported longer hair and a growing hint of a beard. Once freed and at the hospital, it was the first thing the writer had discarded, much to the chagrin of a certain NYPD detective.

"Don't take this wrong, Richard," Martha interjects, now in a more serious tone, "but it was just a place. Just a building. You are beyond rich – you can rebuild the old place . . . or you can build a new place. I know, I know . . . a lot of memories – photographs, autographs, antiques – they're all gone. But you are here, you're alive, and no one was hurt."

"Mmm hmm," Kate mumbles to herself, but just accidently loud enough for everyone to hear. It's bothering her – that little observation.

"What are you thinking, Kate?" Castle asks.

"Just that . . . well, do you realize how perfectly the stars and planets have to align so that – at three or four in morning – _no one_ is at home? In the _entire building_? _No one_ was hurt or injured or killed?"

It is her husband's turn to mumble now, as he nods his head in agreement. That's been bothering him as well.

"I was wondering about that, also," he admits. "It's almost as if . . ."

"As if it were carefully planned out that way," Kate finishes. "That someone intentionally avoided the normal collateral damage that you see in a crime like this. That's the first thing I would look into if I wanted to find –"

"But that's not what you're going to do, right Katie?" her father interjects from his place at the table. "You said it yourself, last night, that whoever killed that man back in the city is trying to bring you out into the open. Well, they may not know it, but if you are already talking about going back and looking into this, then they have succeeded."

"No, Dad, don't worry," she counters, smiling at Jim Beckett. "I . . . we . . . have no plans to return to the city right now. But that doesn't mean we can't start asking questions. And it doesn't mean that Javier and Kevin can't do a little legwork for us."

"You'd pull them into this?" her dad asks, surprised. "Isn't that a little –"

"They're _already_ 'into this', Dad," she replies, interrupting. "The NYPD is involved – and since it this is about Rick, they've naturally involved the 12th Precinct."

"Naturally?" Alexis questions.

"They figure that the detectives there would know Castle the best. They'd have the best insight into potentially where he is . . . where we are," Kate explains.

"And you are sure you can count on Captain Gates and Detectives Esposito and Ryan to stay silent?" Martha wonders, her eyes searching from her son to Kate.

"Not a concern there," Kate replies with confidence. "They all know what's at stake here. They know how to handle this."

"Do you think their phones are being monitored?" Castle asks, as he takes another bite of the strawberry pastries he has made this morning. "You're right, they're already involved, but last thing we want to do is to pull them into this – into what is really going on - if it is going to be dangerous for them."

It's an odd thing to say, given what the two men and their captain do for a living, but Kate simply smiles, knowing it is the protective nature of her husband coming out right now. She is about to comment when he continues, changing gears.

"I can't believe it's gone," he says to no one in particular, shaking his head, his eyes distant – seeing something no one else sees. "That place was over a hundred and twenty years old. So much history, so many stories hidden there."

He wants to go back – desperately – to see if any of the hidden rooms downstairs survived the blaze and multiple blasts that the fire department officials mentioned. All of the secret passages below the city that are . . . were . . . attached to the old place . . . he wonders about them now. His sanctuary there – the secret room built downstairs where the previous owners conducting business and handled the accounting functions – was built fireproof. He wonders if it survived.

"I know what you're thinking, babe," Kate tells him, giving him a supportive but stern eye. "You can't go back and check it out. Not yet. But I promise you, that time is coming, Rick. I promise you. But not yet. Not yet."

 _ **Still Friday morning - October 24, 2014, 11:22 a.m., New York City, at a local deli around the corner from the 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **Precinct**_

The noise of the small eating establishment is starting to build as the lunch crowd slowly pours into the cramped quarters of the delicatessen. Captain Gates sits at the table up against the front window with Detectives Esposito and Ryan. Her back is to the window, allowing her the perfect vantage point of anyone entering the small eatery. Each has a sandwich and soda – bottled water in her case – in front of them. They've taken this little get-together away from the precinct – away from potential ears, both the human and artificial kind.

No one questions these three sitting together, meeting together. They are cops. It's their job to be together. So they aren't hiding. She just wants to make sure that this conversation stays private.

Captain Victoria Gates has been at this for a long time, and she has seen a lot in her years on the force and in Internal Affairs. She knows what usually motivates people to make wrong, bad, or sometimes just criminal decisions. And right now she is wondering just who in the hell is gunning after Richard Castle. This is so . . . so personal. She knows that she has had her issues with the writer for the past couple of years – she knows how he has this innate ability to make you want to pull every fiber of hair out of your head. You just want to slap the man.

But this? Kidnap him? Then drag his name and reputation through the mud. Be willing to kill people just to find him, to flesh him out into the open?

No – this is something else. This is beyond personal. It is unusually harsh - especially after all he has already gone through.

"Maybe we are thinking about this all wrong," she tells the two at the table with her, as she takes another bite of his chicken salad sandwich.

"How so, Captain?" Esposito asks as he takes another long swallow from the glass of Pepsi in front of him.

"Everything so far that has happened, has happened to Mr. Castle," she begins. "Horrific things, I have to admit. Someone kidnaps him, then tries to destroy his reputation by pinning the blame on him for all the deaths that occurred while he was gone –"

"Only because whoever was killing those mobsters was doing it while searching for Castle," Ryan interjects, earning a harsh stare from his Hispanic companion.

"So what now, bro, you think Castle was orchestrating all of that from his little compound retreat in the Tangiers?" Esposito asks, his face hardening.

"No, Javi, no. You know exactly what I mean," Ryan counters just as aggressively. "Whoever did this was smart. _Is_ smart. They know how to manipulate the press, how to pull the strings of the media."

"That's why I am wondering if it is Bracken," the captain announces, wiping her mouth, to the surprise of both detectives.

"What?" Esposito asks, eyes widening. "Why? Why would he-"

"Because he hates Kate," Ryan interrupts.

"This isn't about Kate," Esposito counters again. "She isn't the one who has been –"

"That is the point I was trying to make, Detective Esposito," Gates interrupts. "Yes, it is true, all of this has been done and laid at the feet of Mr. Castle. But what if this _is_ about Kate?"

She can tell by the contemplative glances the two men share with one another that they are now considering this option. She continues.

"What if all of this really has been because of Kate, somehow? What better way to get at Kate than to take away the man she loves? And now that he is back from his incarceration in the Tangier Islands – now that he is safe and sound back home – the attack on him – and therefore – her, continues."

"That doesn't make any sense," Esposito argues. "If he wants Kate then he could come after Kate."

"In an election year, Detective?" Gates questions, with a raised eyebrow. "With the election just a couple of weeks away, he would come gunning for her? If anything happened to Detective Beckett, don't you think he's smart enough to realize that the entire media on the eastern seaboard would immediately serve up one suspect, and one suspect only?"

The two men pause, considering their captain's words, before Kevin Ryan comments.

"That _would_ be like Bracken," he admits, nodding his head.

"Or his wife," Gates adds, placing the final piece of the puzzle in place for her detectives. It's the best fit, in her mind, one that she came to a couple of days ago.

"It fits," she continues. "There are back-room stories about Mrs. Bracken, that she might be the real power, the true danger behind the two of them. Content to stay in the shadows as long as he is winning, as long as he is in power. But consider the . . . and I hate this word . . . the coincidence of it all. Her husband goes to jail – and then Mr. Castle is kidnapped, and put in a different sort of jail. Both wearing orange jumpsuits. Both eating distasteful meals –"

"Both surrounded by predators," Esposito adds, now warming up to the idea.

"I'd say Castle's predators were a bit scarier, don't you think?" Ryan interjects.

"Doesn't matter," Esposito replies. "That _is_ quite a coincidence," he agrees, staring at his captain. "Kate incarcerates her husband . . . she incarcerates Castle."

"Her husband's reputation is ruined, he loses his Senate seat. She responds with her own moves to destroy Castle's reputation, pinning murders on him," Kevin Ryan adds.

"And he loses endorsements as well as his contract with Black Pawn," Esposito adds, nodding his head in agreement.

"And now that Mr. Castle is gone, now that no one knows where he is – save a few of us – someone is now resorting to terroristic tactics to find him?" Gates continues. "No – if they wanted to hurt Mr. Castle, if _he_ truly was the target, if _that_ was their true objective, then his daughter would have been taken. Or worse. Or his mother. No, Mr. Castle isn't the target here."

"Holy shit!" Esposito mutters as his longtime partner nods his head.

"Maybe this really _is_ all about Beckett," Ryan comments with a small whistle. "Whoever is doing this – Bracken or otherwise – they are trying to draw _Kate_ out. You're right – if it were Castle they cared about, they would have gone right after his daughter –"

"Like last year," Esposito adds.

"Or his mother," Ryan agrees, repeating the thought processes of the captain.

"And it follows that the reason," Gates continues, "that whoever is behind this hasn't gone after Jim Beckett, Kate's father, is because doing so gives away their true plan."

"Yeah, if they went after Jim Beckett, then we would all know – everyone would know – that Kate is the real target," Ryan agrees. "But, this way . . ."

"Do you really think it is Bracken?" Esposito asks, his voice low in a whisper now, looking back and forth between his captain and his partner.

"He's the one who makes the most sense," Gates tells them both. "He, or his wife, that is. No one would ever suspect him of being so careless as to launch a campaign against Kate just weeks away from the election, just weeks away from his rise from the political ashes."

The three fall quiet, taking bites from their sandwiches, eating a few chips while staring out the window at the people passing by.

"So . . . what do we do?" Esposito asks, and is surprised by the almost menacing grin forming on the face of Captain Victoria Gates.

 _ **Friday afternoon - October 24, 2014, 2:06 p.m., New York City, at Ramona Vasquez's Apartment**_

She stares at the image on the screen of her large Apple desktop, occasionally moving the picture from one spot to another. She's idly processing random thoughts right now, listening to the soft music from James Morrison, smiling at the raspy, Rod Stewart-like sound he has perfected. Her head falls back for a few seconds as she closes her eyes, blinking away the tired moisture.

She needs some sleep – badly, she knows, but sleep can wait. She's on to something. She knows it in her bones. She glances around at the tidy one-bedroom apartment that has slowly grown on Ramona Vasquez, and she smiles as she takes in the small surroundings that she has called home for the past two years.

The media – some in her circle – have begun to wonder who has it in so hard for Richard Castle, and why. Clearly this is personal. You don't indiscriminately kill innocent people just to send a message. Okay, so perhaps these guys haven't been exactly innocent. But it seems pretty clear that none of them know anything about Richard Castle, unless they've read one of his books. And these don't seem the type to be avid mystery readers.

Ramona is one of those press members who are now wondering. And she is beginning to wonder if it is the same people who kidnapped Castle those months ago who are behind these last two sudden events – or if it is someone else.

Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately – her bosses back at the station aren't interested in her thoughts or theories.

" _Just report the news, Ramona,"_ she says aloud with disgust, mimicking Andrea's ever-caustic and condescending tone.

The utter lack of interest in her opinion by Andrea and the leadership at the station may actually work out in her favor – at least that's what Ramona has decided now. This is an opportunity for her to break away, to create her own brand, her own legacy to build upon. But right now, none of this is making sense.

She stares at the picture of the novelist on her screen, shaking her head. She is going to have to use her own personal time to dig into Castle's past. So be it. There is something here that has never surfaced. She knows it. Something that is at the crux of this crusade against the author. She means to find out what it is. There is a story there – and she's going to uncover it.

"There is something more here – I just don't see it yet, Mr. Richard Castle," she says aloud to the room at large.

"But I will," she whispers softly, lowering her voice, her eyes determined. "Don't you worry. I will."

 _ **Friday evening - October 24, 2014, 8:06 p.m., New York City, in a posh apartment in the city**_

Jimmy Barbosa is a happy, happy man. This is definitely a first for the thirty-seven year old, as Jimmy wonders exactly when he won the woman-of-myth-lottery. He gazes up at the beautiful and extremely naked woman who straddles him. He is lying on his back, with his arms stretched over his head. She holds his hands down, gently – he could easily flip her off of him, of course, but why in the world would he want to do that? She leans down, her long blonde hair falling into his face as she slowly moves her head back and forth, moaning softly.

"Sweet heaven, Jimmy," she whispers to him, as she lifts her head and stares into his dark eyes that are starting to glaze over as well. She knows he is close, and she is also. It has been a fun night, as he is much, much better than she anticipated.

"Katrina – wait . . . just another minute," he half pleads, tightening his grip on her hands, but it is too late. She is too far over the edge. Her face is pure beauty as she loses herself, and he allows himself to fall with her, banging his head against the pillow twice, then another time, clenching his eyes closed. Who would have thought that their first dinner would have turned into this?

He met Katrina Starks on the internet on a dating site after getting a provocative inquiry in his email inbox just over a week ago. When he responded he found out that she was in Europe on a business trip. Things progressed quickly and smoothly online – too smoothly according to Jimmy's friends, who chided him mercilessly for falling for a clear prankster. Nevertheless, Jimmy is having the last laugh for certain, as he had chatted with the gorgeous woman constantly while she was out of country. His only concern was his wondering if the all-too-angelic image on her profile was bogus.

" _That's happened before, after all,"_ he had reminded himself. She just seemed far too beautiful to just be hanging out on a dating site. But meeting her at dinner proved her to be exactly as her profile suggested. She's hot, she's sexy, she's successful – and for reasons he isn't going to question – she is interested in him.

His thoughts – fears really – that she was clearly out of his league were diminished during the meal, and when she suggested that they finish the evening by going back to her place – well, again, this kind of stuff just doesn't happen to Jimmy. At least not before tonight.

He smiles happily with tremendous satisfaction as he finishes, feeling her loosening her grip – both grips actually. He sighs contentedly, opening his eyes to see her looking down on him, smiling seductively. He completely misses the sudden movement, but the last thing he sees is the spray of red that seems go everywhere. There is a quick, sharp plunge of pain before all goes gray and then – mercifully – black.

Elena Markov watches the life seep away from his eyes, wiping the blade on the bedsheets. She climbs off of him, pulling off the blonde wig as she does. She shakes her head, pulling pins from her dark hair to allow it to fall freely down her shoulders. Satisfied, she glances back at the now very dead form on the bed. She chuckles, remembering an old joke about how men would want to leave this life.

"You should be very happy, Jimmy," she says throatily, still trying to compose herself from their activities. He really was very, very nice in bed.

She walks into the massive bathroom, admiring the fixtures and décor. She opens the stall door and turns the shower on, then steps back to the sink, dropping the stiletto knife there, and turning the water on. Leaving it there to rinse, she turns back to the stall and steps into the gloriously hot water, allowing the steam to bathe her, cleanse her. She washes the last evidence of Jimmy Barbosa away, and then steps out, grabbing the large bath towel. She takes her time drying off, humming to herself. Once dry, she turns the water off in the sink and retrieves her weapon, and spends a good two to three minutes wiping it down, an odd and disturbing smile on her face.

Half an hour later, she is back in the knee-length dark blue dress – pulling her sweater coat back on. She steps into the three-inch black heels that still sit at the foot of the bed, and then walks to the full-length mirror on the wall for one final inspection. She gazes at herself in the mirror for a few seconds until, satisfied that the blonde wig is perfectly back into place, she puts the large rimmed glasses back on, completing the disguise. She turns a final time, offering one last look at a now cold Jimmy Barbosa before reaching into her small purse, pulling out the stapler and the eight by eleven piece of print paper, with the note written in large letters.

 _Where is Richard Castle? Someone knows!_

She walks to the bed, leaning over carefully, so as not to stain her dress with the residue still there – and staples the note to the dead man's chest. Satisfied, she turns and walks out into the hall, down the stairs and into the foyer area, letting herself out. She makes sure to leave the front door halfway open. She doesn't want to make him too difficult to find, after all.

" _The world won't miss you, Jimmy Barbosa,"_ the assassin thinks to herself. Elena considers him to be nothing more than just one more loan shark who won't be hurting anyone else. And who knows, perhaps a different kind of message – a more altruistic one – can be sent with this latest killing.

She walks down the flight of stairs, eager to get into the cool of the night. Walking a full ten blocks to take in the night air – as well as put enough distance from the building behind her – she glances down at her watch. Noting the time, she nods her head and takes out a burner phone – as she continues to walk, and dials 911. One ring and she is in business, putting the final nail in the coffin for the evening.

She holds the small digital recorder next to the mouthpiece and hits PLAY. A man's recorded voice takes over.

" _I'd like to report a murder – a man is dead – the address is 595 Broome Street – please hurry."_

She clicks END to hang the call up, then clicks STOP on her recorder. Smiling, she continues walking, knowing that she has knocked over one more piece on her chess board.

Ten minutes later, the police show up, and after a quick search through the building's first floor, and a talk with a completely baffled security guard, they go upstairs and find Richard Castle's front door half open. Weapons drawn, they enter and do a quick perimeter search before finding Jimmy's still-naked body upstairs in the bed.

They find no clues. There is no video surveillance of what transpired. There is no weapon, no evidence at all, save the note stapled to the dead man's chest.


	3. Chapter 3

**Triumphant: Chapter 3**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Friday Evening - October 24, 2014, 11:01 p.m., New York City**_

" _Good evening, New York. We open our broadcast tonight with new developments in the ongoing story surrounding author Richard Castle. There was another murder tonight, the second in the past three days. Once again, the victim is a man with a criminal background, well known to the NYPD. And once again, the victim was killed by a slash to the throat. And finally, once again, the victim was found with a note stapled to his chest, asking the whereabouts of New York's famous mystery novelist. But this is where the similarities end, and things get interesting. Let's go now, on-site, to our in-the-field-reporter, Ramona Vasquez."_

The scene shifts to a street view of the building housing Richard Castle's loft, on Broome Street in SOHO.

" _Thank you, Andrea. I'm standing outside Richard Castle's home in SOHO, where – believe it or not – the latest murder in this sordid tale, straight out of one of his books, occurred this evening. The body of Jimmy Barbosa was found in Mr. Castle's home this evening – in Mr. Castle's bed, no less. As with the previous body found earlier this week, the cause of death was a knife wound to the throat. Most noteworthy, however, was the phone call placed to 911 operators this evening, notifying police officials of Barbosa's murder. According to recordings released by 911 officials this evening, the call was placed by none other than . . . Richard Castle himself!"_

The laughter in the living room of William Bracken's home is unusually loud and raucous, given they are the only two people in the room. He and his wife, Elizabeth, have been watching the latest broadcast with great interest and amusement.

"My God, Elena has them running in circles!" he exclaims, still laughing. "And having a recording of Castle's voice – making it seem like the call is coming from Castle – damn, but she is good!"

"That's why she works for us, Will," his wife reminds him in a very nonchalant manner. And while she is no fan of her husband's all-too-obvious hero-worship of Elena Markov, she also has to admire the woman's ingenuity and imagination.

"This will certainly cause a great deal of consternation with Mr. Castle," she agrees, "but it will also serve to put more pressure on this Hunt character to come into play. The more pressure she puts on his son, the more likely he is to show."

"You think she can really take him?" he wonders aloud. "I mean, this man _did_ terrorize the entire New York City underworld, and the only thing that stopped him was Castle escaping."

"I think I like our chances," Elizabeth scoffs, giving her husband a look that almost approaches disdain. "If she thinks she can take him, then I'm not giving it another thought. What I am thinking about is what an interesting strategy she is employing. By the time she is finished, Mr. Castle is going to be a pariah in this city – an untouchable in the worst sense of the word.

"If he survives," her husband adds, casually.

"True," Elizabeth agrees. "But that's going to be up to him – and how fiercely he decides to protect his fiancée."

 _ **Friday Evening - October 24, 2014, 11:22 p.m., at Castle's Island home in Connecticut**_

"This isn't good," Kate agrees, as she sits in their large bed, comforters pulled up, with her legs underneath her hips. She and Castle have been discussing the latest news broadcast, and both are concerned.

No, concerned isn't the right word. Flat out nervous is what the couple is now, as both realize for certain that they are dealing with a master strategist.

"I hate to say this, but I'm not sure this even feels like Bracken anymore," Kate tells him. This type of long-range thinking, this type of open brutality just doesn't fit with his past actions. His tactics are usually less visible, more subtle. Deadly, yes. But brazen like this?" she adds, shaking her head.

"Then again, babe," Castle counters, "maybe this is _exactly_ like Bracken. Think about it for a minute. You used an audio tape against him to put him in jail. Perhaps he is now using an audio tape against me – kind of tit for tat. We know that I didn't place any call, and we also know that is my voice on the tape we heard."

She nods her head slightly, mulling over his words.

"You might be right, Rick," she tells him. "We put him in jail, they put you in jail . . . assuming we are right and it was them behind your kidnapping."

She takes a swig of the bottled water in her hand and continues.

"He was surrounded by predators. You were surrounded by predators. Using an audio tape might just be an extension of this sick little game they are playing . . . again assuming it is them behind this."

"Either way," he tells her as he reaches over and turns out the light, and clicks the television off with the remote in his hand, "someone has upped the ante significantly. I'm not sure how long we can continue to stay out here, allowing all of this hell to get unleashed in my name. I'm not sure how –"

"We stay here, Rick, until we have a clear strategy of what we want to do," she interrupts. "Right now, we don't have that. Right now, someone wants to draw us out into the open. You and I can do this, Rick – but we have to stick together. We have to be of the same mind."

"Oh we are, babe," he tells her, as he lays his head on the pillow, with her following his action. "Trust me, we are. I know we aren't going anywhere just yet. I just feel horrible that all of this is happening because of me."

"Because of us, babe," she corrects him. "Everything is about us."

It's the culmination of a long journey for Kate Beckett to utter these words. Just a year ago, she would have made this all about her. But there is something about watching your loved one get taken, get brutalized emotionally and beaten down physically – there is something about watching the light go out in a good man's eyes that has taken her on a detour off the normal 'me-syndrome' that has marked their journey together. Having him back, after wondering if she would ever see him again all those months ago has not only changed him. It's changed her. It's changed them. It's strengthened them beyond what any large church wedding, or honeymoon in the tropics could have done.

She snuggles into him as they listen to the wonderful sound of silence in their island home, as they both drift off to sleep.

 _ **Saturday Morning - October 25, 2014, 11:17 a.m., At One Police Plaza, New York City**_

Captain Victoria Gates steps up to the podium, exchanging a small hug with Mayor Bob Weldon, who has completed his opening statements to the press gathered at 1PP for the press conference that had been hastily put together. She stands beside the taller man now, along with Police Chief Henry Jordan, ready to assist them in answering questions that the media has been dying to ask now for the past couple of days.

Weldon's statement had been short and concise: Yes, there had been another murder. Yes, it occurred at Richard Castle's home here in the city. No, there is still no word from the missing author, and no, he is not a suspect at this time, although he is considered to be a person of interest, if for no other reason than he is the one who has called in this latest murder.

And now he has disappeared again after making that phone call.

Both the mayor and the Chief of Police are under fire now, and Victoria Gates has no illusions over her perceived role in this press conference: Handle the tough questions, start the process of pushing the fire away from the two men on the podium with her – and for the love of God, don't say anything that could be considered inflammatory that might cause things to escalate. The truth is – they have no clues – zero, zip, nada. So escalating things is a bad idea.

Andrea Masterson sits in the first row, anxious to be back in the field. There was no way the local newscaster was going to allow the visibility of this press conference to fall into the lap of that overly-ambitious Ramona Vasquez. No, Ramona is getting just a little too much visibility out of this whole mess, thank you very much. It's time for Andrea to take network station spotlight back. A couple of well-placed, timely questions – that will make the evening news tonight, of course – and all will be back to normal.

The hands go up across the three rows of chairs put together for the news conference. Griff, from one of the national networks asks his predictably tame and safe question, tossing a softball for the trio. Andrea chuckles as she sees the Police Chief point to her, indicating it is her turn to ask the next question.

"Thank you, Chief Jordan, Mr. Mayor," Andrea begins, ignoring the Captain of the 12th Precinct. "I have a few questions, if I may. First, how is it that you have no clues whatsoever in any of these three events? Are we dealing with that good of a mastermind that you have no leads at all? And second, doesn't anyone think it is odd that Mr. Richard Castle – the man about whom these crimes are being committed – doesn't have the basic decency to show himself and attempt to do something to dissuade whoever is doing this? I remind you, that when Mr. Castle resurfaced months ago after his initial disappearance, these crimes stopped completely."

She smiles as she sits down, focusing on the two men, and never seeing the small hint of a smile that crosses the lips of the precinct captain.

"I share your frustration, Andrea," Police Chief Jordan begins. "I can only tell you that we are dealing with a very cunning, very dangerous person. Obviously there will be some things we are not at liberty to share, and I trust you – with your experience – understand that," Jordan continues, throwing a bone to the newscaster. He knows her type – a few words of praise, a few subtle compliments and he won't have to concern himself with her anymore.

'What about Mr. Castle showing himself, and taking the pressure off the city?" Andrea continues from her seat, surprising the two men on the platform.

" _Okay, so maybe this won't be that easy,"_ Jordan thinks to himself when Captain Gates steps up to the microphone.

"Ms. Masterson," Gates begins, ignoring the first-name basis her two superiors have chosen to adopt with the newscaster. "Let me ask you a question – what exactly do you expect Mr. Castle to do? Do you truly expect him to be so blatantly stupid as to just show up?"

Captain Gates smiles for the camera – it's a subtle, I-know-something-you-don't smile – and no one misses it.

"May I remind everyone here," she continues, now taking her gaze away from the chastised newscaster and now scanning the rows of press credentials facing her. "Mr. Castle was kidnapped – held against his own will in an incarceration camp of sorts, undergoing both physical and emotional trauma during that incarceration. He went through a hell that none of us – me included – can possibly imagine during those weeks he was gone. And during that time, someone was terrorizing our city, searching for him. Now – someone has started this sick, twisted game all over again, killing people in Mr. Castle's name – and you think his response should be to show up and make himself – and his family – a target all over again? Really? That's the response you think the victim of one of the most publicized crimes in our city since 9/11 should have? Just show up and hope for the best?"

Victoria Gates allows a staged chuckle to escape her lips, giving the audience a stern look before returning his gaze to a now wide-eyed Andrea Masterson, before sweeping the chair out from the woman completely.

"Next question," Gates says simply, and then steps back into line with the two men. Beside her, Chief Jordan barely stifles a smile – he knows the fiery woman. After all, he's the one who put her at the 12th. As for Bob Weldon – well, the mayor also is well acquainted with the leader of the 12th. It's why he insisted to Jordan that Gates be a part of the press conference. He nods approvingly, knowing she has just done exactly what he had hoped.

The rest of the conference is tame and predictable, with another fifteen or twenty easy questions lobbed at the group on the podium, easily answered. Twenty minutes later, the press conference is over, and Victoria Gates walks off the podium as the live TV cameras turn off, feeling the buzz of her cell phone in her suit pocket. She takes the phone out, and smiles at the text from Detective Esposito.

 _ESPOSITO: "Damn Capitan!"_

" _Indeed,"_ she thinks to herself, now wanting to quickly get back to the precinct where she and her two detectives can debrief regarding the latest developments pertaining to their friends-in-hiding.

 _ **Saturday Morning - October 24, 2014, 11:55 a.m., New York City**_

The press conference has just ended and the local channels have returned to their regular programming. William Bracken, the former U.S. Senator and now gubernatorial hopeful picks himself up from the sofa and walks into the kitchen. He pours himself a small tumbler of bourbon over rocks, along with a second tumbler of vodka and sprite, and returns to the sofa, sitting next to his wife. She smiles, taking the vodka cocktail from his hand.

"Thank you, darling," she tells him, as she sits, legs crossed, and head back as she enjoys the first swallow.

"That went as expected," she finally says, opening her eyes.

"Yes it did," Elena Markov replies as she takes the bourbon from Bracken, and offers him her thanks as well. The politician sits next to his wife, leaning back into the sofa, grabbing his bottled water from the side coffee table, his eyes never leaving his assassin. He's concerned. Beckett isn't stupid. And the writer is no dummy either. Sooner or later they are going to start putting this together. And not knowing Elena's full plan, well, it leaves questions. He doesn't do well with unanswered questions.

"Calm yourself, Mr. Bracken," Elena tells him. She knows where his head is, what he is concerned about.

"Kate Beckett can't say anything against you," Elena continues. "Even if she thinks you might be behind any of this, her hands are tied."

Elizabeth Bracken gets it. It's actually a marvelous plan, she has to grudgingly admit. She wishes she had thought of it herself.

"Kate cannot come out and accuse you, Will," Elizabeth tells him while glancing at the Russian. "Because it will come across as a continued personal vendetta – sour grapes that you were freed. We've done a great job of painting that picture of her. Anything she says against you now simply reinforces that mindset. And she knows it."

"Very good, Mrs. Bracken," Elena compliments her. "You are absolutely right – and that is one of the tertiary goals of this strategy. We will draw out Detective Beckett – and her famous boyfriend – in due time. But for now, this is a mental war, a game of wits. It is your game of chicken, yes? We will see who blinks first. But in the meantime, it is one more step to bringing out their protector into the open."

"And you're certain this is necessary?" Bracken asks again. He already knows the answer – but he also knows he is within two weeks of the governor's office – or at least the voting part of it.

"Let me remind you about vision, Mr. Bracken," Elena tells him as she downs the remaining bourbon and stands to leave.

"You either have a vision, or you a tactic, a resource, a pawn in someone else's vision. If we sit and do nothing, I can promise you that you will quickly become a resource, a pawn in some well-thought-out strategy that our adversary will concoct."

"Our adversary being this Mr. Hunt," Elizabeth says aloud, wanting clarification.

"Yes, Mrs. Bracken, we are talking about Mr. Hunt," Elena agrees. Trust me, right about now, he is creating his own plan – wherever he is. This just allows us to stay a few steps ahead of him. We will need this separation, believe me."

"When is your next move, Elena?" Elizabeth asks as she begins to walk Elena to the door.

"It is best that you do not know, Mrs. Bracken," is the predictable response. She opens the door and steps through, before looking back at the couple.

"But I never make you wait long, no?" she tells them, with a smile, then turns and walks out, never looking back.

 _ **Saturday Afternoon - October 25, 2014, 12:17 p.m., New York City**_

Ramona Vasquez cannot keep the smile off of her face, and is having even less success keeping the smile from expanding. Watching Masterson get her comeuppance had been worth being forced to sit out the press conference. She wonders how much of the public chastisement Andrea had to sit through will make the evening news.

"Not one second of it is my guess," Ramona whispers to herself, out loud. She sits at her desk at the station, sorting her thoughts out for her next in-the-field-report.

She smiles, putting the large, Beats headphones on her head, covering her ears. She turns the switch on, and nods her head as all outside sound is cancelled out. She hits the PLAY icon on the media player on her computer, and listens – for at least the thirtieth time – the audio of Richard Castle's call to the 911 operator.

" _Oh that's your voice all right,"_ she thinks to herself _, "but it's not you. It wasn't live."_

Ramona Vasquez is a professional – she is a fine reporter – but more than that, she is a media sound and video editor. She is used to editing her own mixes – editing out video, editing out sound. She creates packages that can be aired, and whenever possible, she makes sure that she is the face that people see for her packages.

All to say, she knows how to edit a video tape, or an audio tape, and make it look and sound as though it is the real deal, no breaks, no pauses – no evidence of editing.

And this audio tape was edited. Oh, it's a professional job, it's a good one. Were she not a reporter who edits her own stories for a living, she, too would have missed it. She would have been fooled, just like everyone else. But she knows it is an edit job, a very, very good splicing of different recordings of Mr. Richard Castle.

She isn't going to bother to tell her superiors – this is going to be her story, and she can keep this to herself. And no one else, save one other person. She is starting to suspect that someone high up is doing this to Castle. Someone has to be connected – very high up, and very deep financially – to pull something like this off.

She listens to the tape one more time, and makes up her mind. The black lady, the captain who was on the podium – she needs to contact her. That was the only person in that press conference who had the look of someone knowing what is really going on. Perhaps she might be the one person to have this conversation with.

But not yet. At the right time. Right now, she has more questions than answers, and if she is going to approach a Precinct captain – she's going to need more arrows in her quiver.

"Patience, Ramona," she tells herself. "All in good time. All in good time."

 _ **Saturday Afternoon - October 25, 2014, 4:33 p.m., At CIA Headquarters in Langley, Virginia**_

Jackson Hunt sits in the basement, reviewing the large file, filled with papers and photographs. He has earphones in his ears, listening to the update report from New York on CNN. He is being called out – he knows this. It's not the first time this has happened, but it's also not something that happens often. Clearly he isn't going to take the bait, but whoever is doing this is good. Very good.

He glances down again at the file, staring at the photograph of the beautiful, dark-haired woman. Easily one of the most beautiful women he has seen – and without question among the most deadly. The two killings in New York are her classic handiwork – clean slices across the neck. And the fact that the second victim had died in bed – either right after or during sexual intercourse – well, all the evidence from the other files he has perused this afternoon indicate that Jimmy Barbosa preferred the female side of the human equation. Which lends high credibility to the notion that he was killed by a woman.

Hunt gazes again at the large, seductive eyes that stare back at him from the photograph.

"Yeah, it's her," he says to himself. This is a meeting he has long sought to avoid. He had thought – over a year ago, that they would finally come face to face in Paris, as he was freeing Alexis. He had been surprised – pleasantly – to be proven wrong. Now – he is convinced that their paths are going to cross. And he is equally convinced that he is going to have to be far more prepared than he is right now. Crossing Elena Markov isn't something you just do. You plan for it. You make plans within plans. He knows he will be playing with a master chess player. His biggest concern now is keeping Richard hidden. Somehow – probably through the detective – he has kept himself hidden. Now he just needs to make sure that Richard and Kate stay that way.

Interestingly enough, his son has really gone off-radar, because Hunt has no idea where he is. Then again, for the past few months, he hasn't really looked hard for his son. He had no need to. His son was safe after escaping the island down south – and so far up until a few days ago – the only people who died had done so at Hunt's hand. So he really had nothing to worry about.

Until now.

He closes the file, and puts it back into its place in the cabinet – but keeps the photograph. He needs to memorize everything about her face, every feature. He will scan the photograph, and then play with the resulting digital image. He will give her blonde hair, then red hair. He will see her as a brunette, and he will shorten the hair, and lengthen it. He will take those incredible dark eyes and turn them blue, then green, then light brown. He will place a mole on her cheek, and try her out with different glasses – both prescription and sunglasses.

He knows that when he sees her for real – on the human battlefield – she most likely will not look like the woman in the photograph, so he will spend the next week or so getting used to seeing Elena Markov in different disguises. A master of disguise himself, he knows that the right disguise can allow him to saunter right up to a target and take them out while standing next to them – and no witness would ever be able to truly identify him.

She, too, is a master of disguises. He will not underestimate her. Those who have done so are buried – and not always in one piece. He won't make that mistake.

"Soon, my friend," he says softly, staring at the image one last time before putting it in his short jacket pocket, and turns out the lights in the small basement room. He already knows that she is calling him out – so it follows that she knows who he is. No – she doesn't know his real name, or how to find him. But she knows who he is father to. She knows the relationship between Richard Castle and Jackson Hunt. How she found out is another question he will need to get answers to.

"First things first, though," he tells himself as he walks toward the elevator to return to his station upstairs. He begins to whistle, the confidence growing with each passing minute until he is sitting at his desk again, scanning the photograph to his laptop, which is USB cable-connected to the multi-function printer/copier/scanner/fax machine.

"Soon enough," he repeats, now staring at the digitized image on his screen, and typing a few commands, now begins to play with the image, adorning the photograph of the woman with different disguises that – within days – he will have memorized and filed away.


	4. Chapter 4

**Triumphant: Chapter 4**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Sunday Evening - October 26, 2014, 8:01 p.m., New York City**_

The ballroom at the Waldorf Astoria is filled to capacity for tonight's dinner and highly anticipated speech from one William Bracken, former United States Senator. The election is closing in – now less than two weeks away. There is a palpable buzz in the air here at the old, established hotel. Purchased by Chinese insurer Anbang for just under two billion dollars in the last week or so, there is an excitement in the staff here as well. Fortunately the venue was booked well in advance of the sale.

He knew this was going to be a big night – knew that he would be a big hit. He always is. He knows this, and relishes the spotlight. But he also knew that he was going to get questions about what is happening with Richard Castle. It's unavoidable, given his very public feud with the novelist's fiancée. He planned to plead no knowledge about any of that. It isn't enough – but he knew this coming into tonight as well. He's always prepared, if nothing else.

"I understand that Mr. Castle was unfortunate enough to fall into the wrong hands earlier this year. Dangerous hands. And like all New Yorkers – all Americans for that matter – I found the whole matter revolting," he says, answering a question from the audience. It's risky, taking questions at a dinner, but a maneuver he has perfected . . . stop the speech and open it up for questions, right there in the midst of his speech. It gives the appearance of transparency, that he has nothing to hide.

It works every time.

"It does make one wonder – however," he continues, watching a myriad of nodding heads in the audience. "Mr. Castle disappears, and a series of gruesome murders take place – each invoking his name. He comes back, safe and sound – and all of us are relieved – and the murders stop. Then for reasons I suppose only he knows, he disappears yet again – this time with his fiancée, a detective from our own NYPD. And lo and behold, another string of brutal murders begin again. And once again – invoking his name."

He pauses for effect – he is an absolute master at playing the crowd, at giving the right inflection in his voice, the right confused look on his face. He's very believable.

"My friends, if there is one thing I have learned in my life of service to this state, and this country, it is that things are not always as they appear to be."

He pauses one more time, mentally counting off a couple of seconds before continuing, with a single raised eyebrow for emphasis.

"I have to wonder who is behind this – _who is stupid enough_ to do this . . . _again_. Perhaps things are not what they seem," he repeats.

"What do you mean?" a voice from the audience asks out loud – planted there, of course, by his wife, Elizabeth. Not so transparent after all, but no one is the wiser.

"I've said enough – you can decide what to do with that," he says quickly with a wave, as if dismissing a pesky insect. "Now – can we talk about more important, more pressing issues than a missing author?"

As expected – scratch that – as planned, a roar of approval, complete with thunderous applause greets his dismissal of Richard Castle – again all planted, all planned, all a part of the theatre that is William Bracken. And all of it, of course, is captured by the press – eager for more footage for the late news later this evening.

 _ **Sunday Evening - October 26, 2014, 11:04 p.m., New York City**_

The evening news begins with a report about the dinner gala at the hotel, complete with footage of the ex-Senator's speech, and a panning of the adoring and approving crowd of supporters – well-dressed, seated at their tables – attention completely focused on the gubernatorial hopeful. It is the closing comments of this segment, however, that draw most of the attention.

" _In closing, Andrea, it would appear that the ex-Senator is not the only one wondering if something else is happening here,"_ Ramona Vasquez says, looking at the camera with the empty ballroom now as her backdrop.

" _We have learned that New York District Attorney Fred Sanderson has issued a subpoena for Richard Castle, the missing novelist, and had this to say to us earlier this evening."_

The broadcast cuts to footage of a previous interview, earlier in the evening with the new District Attorney.

" _We have no reason to believe that – assuming he is safe, and has simply chosen to disappear – we have no reason to believe that Mr. Castle will not honor the law and appear this Tuesday to answer a few questions. Questions we believe that only he has the answer to,"_ Sanderson tells the camera.

" _And what if he does not appear?"_ Ramona had asked the D.A., still on camera. His 'assuming he is safe' statement had been made fairly tongue-in-cheek.

" _Well then that means we have a problem, Ramona, doesn't it,"_ he had replied.

" _It is possible, however, isn't it Mr. Sanderson,"_ she had asked, _"that his silence might indicate that he is not safe and sound, somewhere?"_

" _I would have thought that a likely probability, Ramona,"_ he replied, _"however, we cannot forget that Mr. Castle was right here in the city to call 911, and report the murder that occurred at his home – again, here in the city. No, Ramona, we believe he is here in the city, somewhere, and very safe."_

At that moment – in New York City, and on a tiny distant island off the coast of Connecticut, two separate television sets are turned off . . .

 _ **Sunday Evening - October 26, 2014, 11:07 p.m., New York City at Victoria Gates' Home**_

Captain Victoria Gates angrily turns off the television with the remote control in her hand, and glances down at the sleeping form of her husband. She frowns, agitated with how the media is portraying the events transpiring around her best detective and her husband.

Very few people know that Kate Beckett and Richard Castle are married now – very few – only those who were at the wedding in fact. She shakes her head, increasingly aware that this particular couple just can't seem to catch a break coming or going. She pulls her legs forward, from under the covers and stretches them out on the floor, then pulls herself up out of the bed. Glancing back at his still sleeping form, and satisfied that she has not awakened her husband, she gathers her robe around her and walks to the dresser. She retrieves the business card she placed there last night.

On a whim, she had gone to the station yesterday afternoon – late – just to wrap a couple of things up so she wouldn't have to attack them first thing Monday. She had immediately seen the business card sitting on her desk. A meticulous creature, she recognized immediately the out-of-place, offending card. She immediately wondered how anyone got into her office with it, but just as quickly realized that it was probably dropped off and then subsequently placed there by Gwen.

Then again, Gwen would have left a note.

Which means somehow, someone got into her office. The thought still bothers her tonight.

She turns the card over, and once again, reads the handwritten note on the back of the business card.

' _We need to talk, Captain. I hope I can trust you.'_

The name on the opposite side of the card simply says 'Ramona Vasquez' and the news station call letters. Upon her first reading of the card, Iron Gates had simply tossed it back onto her desk. She is not a huge fan of the media. Her time in Internal Affairs has caused her to look at the world with a slightly different shade of lens. And the media? Well, they are definitely in the 'not to be trusted' bucket, in her opinion.

Something, however, had caused her to pick it up as she left the station yesterday, and put it in her purse. And once home, she had given it a second glance, then placed it on her dresser.

" _Well, there must be a reason I haven't tossed this thing,"_ she thinks to herself as she walks back to the bed, and retrieves her cell phone from her nightstand. She quietly exits her bedroom, closing the door behind her, and walks into the living room, and sits on the large leather chair there. She stares at the card for a few more seconds before exhaling, and begins dialing the number.

"Here goes nothing," she says softly, out loud.

Three rings later, a familiar raspy voice she has often heard on television answers.

"This is Ramona," the reporter answers.

"Ms. Vasquez," Gates begins, "I know it is late, and I apologize. This is Captain Victoria Gates from the 12th Precinct. It appears I had a visitor yesterday in my office."

She hears the woman chuckling at the other end, and smiles. Kind of ballsy that she isn't even trying to deny it.

"I was beginning to wonder if I had misjudged you, Captain," Ramona tells her. "I am glad to hear from you. And please call me Ramona."

"Well, Ramona," Gates replies, hesitating for a moment and then making up her mind. "Let me be transparent with you – I don't have a particular fondness for the media."

"I often share your feelings, Captain," Ramona replies, now causing a chuckle from the NYPD Captain. "However, we are what we are – and right now I think we might be able to . . ."

"To what?" Gates asks, her defensive nature immediately kicking in. If this woman starts talking about quid pro quo, this is going to be a damn short phone call.

"We might be able to help a certain citizen of the city," Ramona says, cautiously.

"And what citizen are we talking about?" Gates asks.

"Mr. Richard Castle, Captain," Ramona says quickly. Yeah, now she has her attention.

"And why would . . . and understand, I ask this question simply out of a well-established distrust of the press . . . but why would you want to help Mr. Castle, Ramona. The bigger story – from your network – seems to be one that paints him in a very negative manner."

"That's why I am having this call with you, Captain," Ramona replies evenly, and easily. "I caught the press conference with the mayor and the Chief . . . I thought I might be able to trust you with this."

"Trust me with what?" Gates asks.

"The 911 call," Ramona tells her. There is silence on both ends of the phone for a few seconds, and Ramona Vasquez smiles, knowing the grenade she has just tossed into the mix.

"What about the 911 call, Ramona?" Gates asks.

"It was a fake," Vasquez tells her. "I know a fake when I see it, when I hear it . . . that call was not real."

Gates is quiet for a few seconds . . . and a few more . . . and suddenly Ramona Vasquez is afraid she is on the phone by herself, when Gates finally speaks up again.

"If this is true . . . and I'm not saying I do or do not believe you . . . but if this is true, then why is your station reporting the exact opposite?"

"It's true, Captain, believe me," Vasquez responds. "And my station isn't reporting this because they do not know it is a fake."

"And why is that?" Gates asks evenly.

"Because I haven't shared this little gem with anyone there," Ramona answers. "In fact, the only person I have shared this with is you. Right now."

"And why is that?" Gates asks, repeating her question again.

"Because I do not trust what they will do with this information," Ramona tell her. "There is a huge story brewing . . . and the truth will get in the way of that story. That's not something my . . . superiors are anxious to hear."

Gates nods her head, well aware of the proclivity of certain leaders in the media to look for the best story, and not always the most accurate one. After all, it is all too easy to issue a retraction and apology.

"So . . . and please, forgive me for asking this . . . but what is in it for you – this truth? How does it help you, Ramona?"

"I'm not sure it does, Captain," the reporter answers, honestly. "But there are people dying out here – brutally – and at some point, I don't think whoever is perpetrating this is going to stop with criminals and mobsters. To be honest, Captain – if I take this to anyone else, I'm kind of scared for my own life."

Captain Gates nods and smiles, pleased. That's the only answer that the reporter could have given that would have satisfied the Precinct Captain. It makes sense. A reporter comes across a conspiracy of some type, where people are already getting massacred. Said reporter has two choices – shut up, or speak up. And unless you are talking to an honest cop or city official, speaking up will get you killed.

"You and I need to talk, Ramona," Gates tells her. "But not over the phone. We need to meet face to face."

"I don't know, Captain – a television reporter and a police captain sitting down and –"

"What makes you think anyone will witness this meeting, Ramona," Gates interrupts. "Give me a little more credit than that."

"My apologies, Captain," Ramona agrees. "When and where would you like to meet?"

 _ **Just past Midnight – now Monday - October 27, 2014, 12:52 a.m., in New York City**_

Elena Markov sits outside the small flat in the city, staring at the living room window. The light has been out for the past hour. An hour is plenty of time. She smiles, and exits her black Cadillac Escalade – leaving the safety of the darkly tinted windows. She walks toward the building, some fifty yards ahead from where she parked. She carries a single envelope in her hand, moving stealthily along the street.

Always thinking two, three moves ahead, she suppresses a smile at this latest move. She knows she is now mere days away from bringing Richard Castle out into the open. She needs to make sure the whereabouts of his father are known to her before that occurs. This next move – and the move after that – will hopefully ensure this.

It is important for enough public pressure – and official distrust – to be brought against the author in order for this to work. These two moves will accomplish both.

She slides the envelope between the cracks of the door, and nods when she sees it disappear inside the door, falling to the floor inside the home. Jogging quickly, she returns to the SUV, puts it into gear, and heads upstate to the Hamptons, to execute her final move before the sun ushers in a new day.

 _ **Monday Morning - October 27, 2014, 6:57 a.m., New York City**_

District Attorney Fred Sanderson takes a deep breath, and then another sip of his morning coffee as he stands in his kitchen, staring out the window. He considers his actions over the weekend, issuing a subpoena for Richard Castle, and the camera time that decision has given him. A faint smile crosses his face. This is going to be a good week.

"Ready to go, dear?" Brenda asks. Married for twenty-four years, the couple is settled into an easy morning routine for workdays for her husband. Coffee for him, breakfast for the kids before putting them off to school.

"Yep," he replies. "Thanks for the coffee, Bren," he replies, as he turns and places a soft kiss on his wife's cheek.

"Will you be home early or late?" she asks.

"Early, I hope," he tells her. "I don't have anything firm for late in the afternoon, so as long as that doesn't change – I should be home at a reasonable hour."

"Okay, have a good one," she tells him, as she does everyone morning as he leaves, accepting the kiss, and heads back toward the bedrooms in the back of the house to awaken the children for school.

Fred Sanderson drops the cup into the sink, and washes it quickly before placing it into the dishwasher. Bren will turn it on later, after breakfast. Once she gets the kids out, she will get herself ready and head down to the women's shelter where she works.

Smiling, he walks toward the front door, a tune in his head and a whistle on his lips, ready to burst out when he sees the one thing out of place as he approaches the front door. A white envelope on the ground at his front door. Inside his home.

He glances to the left and right, nervously, before finally taking the final two steps to pick the envelope up. His hands trembling, he holds the envelope up into the light, satisfying himself that there is nothing dangerous inside. It always helps to be careful.

Slowly – and carefully – he opens the top of the envelope, testing its weight. Satisfied that there is nothing but a letter inside, he rips the rest of the envelope away and takes out the single postcard sized paper, made of similar stock. He reads the three simple sentences there – hand written – and cannot stop his hands from shaking. He blinks quickly, holding the note with both hands now, but both hands continue to tremble, as he once again turns left and right – wondering who has sent this, wondering when it was dropped here.

And more than anything else – wondering what he has gotten himself into.

He glances down at the words, and a shudder shakes him to his core, causing him to drop the note to the ground. He does not hear Brenda Sanderson walking up behind him, or the children rustling in the kitchen behind both of them.

"Fred?" she asks, causing him to jump with a slight yelp.

"Fred!" she exclaims, now nervous herself. This isn't like him. And she has watched the note drop to the floor. She sees the pure terror in his eyes as he turns to face her. She quickly walks past him, and picks up the note from the floor.

"Don't Bren," he warns, his voice shaky, trying to take the note away from her. She holds her arm away at a distance, keeping him away from the piece of paper, and reads the note for herself. The bile that rushes up into the back of her throat catches her by surprise.

' _Caught your act on the news. Your predecessor wasn't very smart. Do I have to deal with you – and your family – also?'_

 _ **Monday Morning - October 27, 2014, 8:05 a.m., In the Hamptons**_

The small crowd of neighbors stand, gathered in the cool of the morning - all eyes fixated on the burnt remains of the once proud and beautiful structure. The smell of burned wood is strong in the gentle breeze that brushes across the shoreline behind them, as are the whispers flowing easily across the air from concerned neighbors and community officials.

A murder in his home back in New York, and now his beach home burned to ground. And the question burning on everyone's lips is the same.

" _Where is Richard Castle?"_

 **A/N:** A relatively short chapter, and no appearance by Richard Castle or Kate Beckett, I know. Rest assured, this is moving the story forward – and our couple is right around the corner.

On a sad note – RIP David Bowie – an artist who defined 'undefinable'. I grew up listening to David Bowie, from Space Oddity to Aladdin Sane to Diamond Dogs to Young Americans to Station to Station, Low, Heroes and Lodger. To think that one man – the same mind – created that diversity of music – in one decade – is nothing short of staggering. A true loss, especially for those who did not have the honor and privilege of growing up listening to the man. And I was just listening to Blackstar just two days ago…


	5. Chapter 5

**Triumphant: Chapter 5**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Monday Morning - October 27, 2014, 1:45 p.m., In New York City**_

The hot water pelts her quickly reddening skin as it fills the small bathroom up with steam that rises to the ceiling before settling back towards the floor. Behind the smoked glass, Elena Markov takes a deep, long breath, her hands against the wall inside the shower, her head leaning against the wall, her eyes closed as she lets the water do its work.

She alternately breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth, shaking her head occasionally.

It has been a long evening and morning – even for Elena. She made it out to the Hamptons just after three o'clock, earlier this morning. By four o'clock she was headed back toward the city, leaving a home – and a slew of memories – in flames in her rear view mirror. She hit the city just after seven, and made it here to her loft around 7:30 this morning. She was barely inside her front door when she began peeling off clothes – stepping out of her black jeans, and leaving them in a heap on the floor in the living room along with her black sweater. She fell onto the bed, exhausted, stopping only to set her clock for six hours of desperately needed sleep.

Now fully awakened, she allows her mind to reflect on the events of last night and this morning.

She has no concerns about the message she delivered to one Fred Sanderson at his home. He's a pawn, nothing more. She knows men like Sanderson – and she knows that the family man is likely running panicked by now, scared to death for his family. Whether he takes this to the press, she isn't quite sure. But she knows he won't sit on this – no, not with the safety of his family at stake. At a minimum, he's going to go to the police, ask for protection.

She puts him out of her mind. It's the second message delivered out in the Hamptons that has her deep in thought.

Taking out Richard Castle's Hamptons home might have been considered – even by her standards – a wee bit of overkill. The murder in his city loft actually served its purpose. There is no way he or his fiancée would be comfortable enough to return there. Destroying his beach home served two purposes.

First, it is standard procedure for her mental, guerrilla warfare. Take everything away. Possessions. Reputations. Friends. Family. Everything. Put the enemy on the defensive, always backpedaling, always looking over their shoulder.

And angry. Unfocused. Ready to make mistakes.

He's fortunate that she has chosen not to attack his family – not that she could right now. She has no idea where Martha Rodgers or Alexis Castle have gone to ground. Grudgingly, she admires the quick reaction that took both out of play.

Second, it simply eliminates all living options – at least those she knows of - for the writer, save a hotel in the city. That was her purpose. She wants the writer and the detective on unsure footing, on unfamiliar grounds when they return to the city.

The subpoena from Sanderson has taken care of their return. She knows they will be here in the city in the next day or so – for questioning. She wants to make sure they stay in the city. Despite Sanderson's assertions that Castle has been here all along, she knows better. She knows the financial resources at Castle's disposal, and therefore has assumed that he has been gone all along. And given that 'Castle' isn't his given name – she considers it likely that he has changed his name once again.

She lifts her face into the oncoming onslaught of hot water, relishing the sting. Eyes still closed – she now considers his father once again – and how best to execute this next step – one that she is certain will draw the older man out into the open – if he isn't already on his way here already.

 _ **Monday Afternoon - October 27, 2014, 1:45 p.m., In New York City**_

"I don't think we have much of a choice, Rick. I'm not too keen on going back either."

Kate Beckett sits on the east-facing side of the large, wraparound porch at their island home, in the large hanging chair. Her feet are drawn up under her hips, and she has a glass of sweet white zinfandel in her hand.

It truly is 'home' now – essentially the only home they have.

They have no desire to return to the loft back in the city. Their privacy there has been completely destroyed, and a life has been taken there. It's no longer anything resembling 'home'. It's probably going to be a difficult sale on top of everything else, given the death that occurred there.

At the Hamptons, the beach home is gone. She's never seen her husband really, truly cry before. Not like that. Until this morning. She had watched his face, holding his hand as they watched footage of the burnt remains of his Hampton's home on the newscast. She knows he has already gone through so much this year – what with his kidnapping, with all that he went through on that 'other island'. But to watch the tears stream down his face this morning as he watched hundreds of memories – pictures of Alexis, pictures of different times with his baby girl, pictures of some of Kate's initial visits there, pictures of Richard and Martha from decades ago – a lifetime of history now lost forever.

She knew she was watching tears for things that can never be replaced, for moments in his life that he had selected to keep close to his heart – always ever visible. Now no more.

Kate Beckett is miles beyond merely pissed-off right now. There is a true and righteous anger simmering in the woman now – and she is making no attempt to quell it. She's going to allow this, allow it to bubble forth. She's going to use this anger. She's no idiot – she knows that someone is pulling their strings, yanking their chains. Someone wants them angry. Someone wants them unfocused, and making mistakes.

Well, mission accomplished on the angry part. What they don't know, however, is how her husband softens her. How he has become the flip side of the equation for her. Years ago, this type of anger would have blinded her. Today? With Castle in tow, not just as a work partner, but as a husband? No – this anger no longer blinds her. It energizes her. It focuses her.

"I know, babe," he replies softly. "We can't . . . I can't ignore a subpoena. Someone wants me – wants us – back in the city pretty badly."

"We just need to be careful," she tells him. "Limit our time out in the open – don't make ourselves visible targets. We have to make sure our arrival is invisible, even though it will be very much anticipated. Make sure our departure is quick and unseen. And gather as much information as we can while we are there."

"Gates can probably help with that," Castle adds. "I know that she's been keeping eyes and ears open for us. But it's going to be quick – we're not going to be in the safe confines of your precinct."

"I know," Kate agrees. They've set the meeting up for 1PP, tomorrow at two o'clock in the afternoon, and they can only hope that the media circus won't be in full effect.

Who are they kidding?

"I'm so sorry about our home, babe," she tells him, switching gears. "I know there is so much there that we can never replace. I wish there were something we could –"

"There is," he interrupts her. "His eyes are hardened like flint as he stares out at the waters of the Sound in the distance."

"We can get these sons-of-bitches" he tells her. She simply nods her head, and squeezes his hand. Whatever happened on that island, it changed him. When confronted with death – his or someone else's – he chose the latter. And he created and executed a plan with ruthless efficiency. Now, as they sit on their porch – husband and wife – she realizes that the monster he had fought and fought and fought to suppress over the past few months is resurfacing.

And - God help her - she isn't going to do a damn thing to push that monster back under the water.

 _ **Tuesday Morning - October 28, 2014, 11:03 a.m., At One Police Plaza in New York City**_

The morning sun is high overhead as the couple exits the non-descript taxi-cab a block away from the police headquarters at 1PP. He hands a few bills to the clearly grateful cabbie, then turns his attention back to his companion who stands curbside. While they want to limit their time in public – they also don't want to give the media circus that is undoubtedly camped out at headquarters the opportunity to dictate what the public sees later today and tonight. Not yet. They've played this media game before – her as a detective and he as a famous author. They know this game and can do this with the best of them.

As planned, Detective Javier Esposito meets them as they exit the cab, and quickly walks them around to a back entrance a block away, where Kevin Ryan is waiting inside. A quick phone call when they are roughly a hundred feet away, and the door opens right as they arrive, ushering the reunited friends into the building. It is not until then that pleasantries are exchanged.

"So good to see you, Espo, Kevin," Castle greets the two men, pulling both into a bear hug into his large frame. Esposito is the first to break away, pulling Kate into his own embrace.

"Missed you," he tells his longtime friend and partner. "Ultra-cool wedding, by the way," he smiles.

"Ditto that," Kevin Ryan agrees, smiling – and for a brief moment, the foursome forget the seriousness of their reunion. They allow the respite, relishing the moment, as none of them know when they will get such a moment again.

"Let's do this," Esposito finally tells the group, and suddenly the moment has passed, as they make their way down the hallway toward the stairway.

"Fourth floor?" Kate asks.

"You know it," Kevin Ryan replies as he opens the door to the stairwell. Slowly but deliberately, they make their way up to the second floor, then the third. Castle is actually breathing a little harder by the time they reach the fourth floor. Ryan had warned them about the throng of press camped out both outside the front entrance and at the elevator.

"Not like you to avoid the cameras, Castle," Esposito chuckles.

"Times change," is Castle's quick reply as they exit the stairway and make their way toward the large conference room down the hallway.

The door to the conference room swings open wide, and the people sitting at the table rise in unison as the entourage enters the room. District Attorney Fred Sanderson cannot keep the deer-in-the-headlights look off his face as he takes in his first experience of the Beckett gaze. There is a fierceness to the woman that he is totally unprepared for. Worse, the hardened look in her companion's eyes does nothing to lessen his unease.

Any hesitation in his mind at all that these two could not be capable of rendering damage quickly melts away under the fierce, stone stare that each greets the district attorney with. Captain Victoria Gates finds herself struggling to suppress a shudder herself at the harsh welcome from her friends. She knows that the loss being felt by both is staggering.

One home has been invaded and desecrated.

Another home has been destroyed, left smoldering.

One reputation has been tarnished by innuendo.

Another reputation is all but destroyed by an all-too-evident bias.

Gates glances over at Jennifer – she didn't catch the woman's last name – the stenographer who will be recording this inquisition of sorts. She gives the shorter, somewhat stocky woman a nod of the head, letting her know to start capturing everything that happens here from this moment on. Jennifer brushes a couple of strands of her short, brunette hair from her face. Gates likes the woman – young, attractive, very professional. She mentally gives the woman kudos for not fawning over the author – a theme she has seen enacted far too many times in her precinct.

Neither Castle nor Kate utter a word – all by pre-agreement. Kate merely gives Captain Gates a quick nod of the head, while Castle – again by pre-agreement – altogether ignores the police captain.

"I'm here," Castle says, his voice a low rumble as he eyes Sanderson. "Let's make this quick, if you don't mind," he tells the district attorney.

"But I do mind," Sanderson replies evenly, finding his balance – and courage. He's not going to be bullied by either of these two.

"Can I ask where you have been, Mr. Castle?" the district attorney asks, eyeing the writer evenly. It's a mistake.

"You can ask, but I wouldn't expect an answer if I were you," Castle replies just as evenly. His gaze never wavers from the district attorney.

"Mr. Castle," Captain Gates interjects, "we'd like to keep this as cordial as possible."

"I want to know why I am here," Castle asks, undeterred – again, according to plan.

"There are people dying out here, Mr. Castle, in case you haven't noticed," Sanderson tells him. "And that's just –"

"And in case _you_ haven't noticed," Castle interrupts, "I've had my ass handed to me over the past five or six months."

"We just would like to know what you know about these murders, Mr. Castle," Sanderson replies, his edge starting to fade just a bit.

"And I would like to know who burned my home down," Castle counters, "and that's just for starters. Someone breaks into my home here in the city, commits a murder, and then fakes a call from me to the 911 oper-"

"Fakes a call?" Sanderson interrupts. It's something he hadn't even considered – the notion that Castle might not have been involved. Since it was his voice on the call, it just isn't something he considered. And it isn't anything that anyone from the NYPD even offered as a possibility.

"I was nowhere in the vicinity," Castle tells him, his voice hard. "That might have been my voice – but it sure as hell wasn't me. I'd be an idiot to kill someone and then call it in. I wouldn't even write something as stupid as that," he continues, drawing a snicker from Jennifer, who quickly looks down at her machine, trying to disappear.

Sanderson, however, is feeling a bead of sweat roll down his forehead. Did the man actually just say what he heard?

 _I'd be an idiot to kill someone – and then call it in_.

Not, I'd be an idiot – _period_. Which tells the city's new district attorney that this man really _is_ capable of murder.

"Don't tell me, Mr. Sanderson, that you didn't even consider the possibility that a very public figure like my husband – who has been photographed, recorded and caught on camera countless times at book signings and readings over the years – could be framed?" Kate asks, almost mockingly.

"Your . . . your husband?" Sanderson asks, now becoming flustered. This isn't going as planned. Not at all.

"That's what engaged people eventually do," Castle tells him, his voice turning belittling. Then turning to Victoria Gates, he begins to insert the knife.

"Where did you get this character?" he asks Gates. "I didn't come all this way, endangering myself and my wife to sit here with this –"

"Mr. Castle," Gates interjects, "I'm sure you understand that all of the deaths that have occurred – by a person or persons interested in your whereabouts – not once but twice – would be a cause for concern."

"I understand that, Captain," Castle agrees, somewhat more cordially. "But I also understand that no one seems to give a damn that everything I have – my homes, my reputation, my livelihood – are being slowly and deliberately ripped away from me."

"Mr. Castle, please –"

"No! You listen to me," Castle raises his voice as tells the now back-pedaling district attorney. Clearly the man is not on his A-game this morning, and it is due – in no small part – to the threatening letter he received this morning. Not knowing where it is coming from – but assuming that it has come from someone associated with the writer – this has definitely cast a pall over these proceedings.

"Five months ago I was kidnapped – I was run off the road on my way to my wedding. Someone drugged me, and when I came to – I had no idea where I was. All I knew was that I was trapped, I was jailed for lack of a better term, forced to live on canned rations, forced to watch human beings fed to live lions, forced to fight for my very survival. And when I escaped – through the help us absolutely no one save my wife here who got there minutes too late – I made it back home only to find my reputation in tatters. To get away from it all, I escaped with my family, for my own protection, and theirs. And now I am to be held responsible for warped and sadistic actions of a madman? No! No! This conversation is over."

"Mr. Castle, I must insist –"

"Is my husband being charged with anything, Mr. Sanderson?" Kate interjects, cutting off the flustered district attorney once again.

"No, but –"

"And do you believe him when he says he has no idea who has been killing people here in the city?" she continues.

"Well, there is still the matter of –"

"That was a yes or no question, Mr. Sanderson," she interrupts, and for the second time this morning, Fred Sanderson wilts under the fierce gaze of Katherine Beckett.

"Ms. Beckett, I –"

"That's Mrs. Castle," she interrupts again. "Or were you not paying attention when I referred to him as my husband earlier."

For a moment, there is silence in the room. Jennifer raises her head hesitantly, looking from person to person to see who will break the impasse. It turns out to be the captain from the twelfth precinct.

"Mr. Sanderson, do you have any further questions for Mr. Castle?" she asks.

"No . . . no," he tells her, deciding that he has had enough for one morning. Nothing that either of them has said or shown him this morning has done anything to dissuade his thinking that they might be capable of the type of harm that has been inflicted upon the city.

And if they aren't guilty of any of the recent happenings . . . then heaven help whoever is, when these two find him – or her.

"Then we are free to go," Kate tells her husband, standing. He stands with her. So far, this has gone according to the plan they concocted with Victoria Gates. Sure, it's risky. There is a clear danger in playing the role that the media has gleefully painted. When they walk out of this conference room, Fred Sanderson is going to be convinced that both are easily capable of such violence. That will be the message that he intentionally or unintentionally provides to the media, to other city officials.

It's the message that whoever is actually behind these killings is going to hear.

" _It's important that whoever is behind these killings actually begins to approach the two of us with far more caution than we have been seeing,"_ Kate had told Castle – and Gates – prior to coming to the city. _"Right now, whoever is doing this is moving with impunity. I want our DA to fear us a bit, and by extension through word of mouth, put some of that fear in whoever our enemy is."_

" _Remind me again to never piss you off,"_ Castle had told her last night.

" _Too late for that, handsome,"_ she had smiled.

Boldly, the couple walks toward the door of the conference room, and without a single look back, walks through the door and down the hallway. They pass a couple of officers on their way to the elevator. Unlike their arrival, this time it is time to walk boldly through the mass of media in the main foyer area of the ground floor and out the door to hail a cab.

A janitor is bent over near the elevator, on his knees, wiping up some spill from the floor, while officers walk past, glancing backward at the couple. Their whispers are louder than intended, as more than a few recognize the city's youngest woman ever to make detective, and virtually everyone recognizes the larger man with her.

Rick pushes the button at the elevator, and he and Kate are quiet and motionless as they stand at the doors, their heads down. A soft ding heralds the arrival of the elevator car. The doors open and Rick and Kate enter in, ready to relax for the fifteen to twenty seconds it will take to get to the ground floor, before they begin the next phase of their plan. He pushes the button for the ground floor, steps back, and is about to speak when the janitor pushes his mop and pail on wheels into the elevator car, and pushes the button for the second floor.

The door closes, and the janitor turns, standing straight up, coming out of his hunched over, crouching position. He removes the black wig that neither realized he was wearing, as well as the large, black-rimmed glasses. Finally, he removes a black mustache from his upper lip. His layered silver hair frames a thin, older and smirking face.

"Dad?" Richard Castle exclaims, the surprise in his voice mirrored by his eyes.

"Hello son . . . daughter," he greets them, glancing at Kate as he addresses her. "We need to talk."


	6. Chapter 6

**Triumphant: Chapter 6**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Tuesday Morning - October 28, 2014, 11:50 a.m., Still at One Police Plaza in New York City**_

"What are you doing here?" Castle asks the silver-haired man, who has developed this uncanny knack for showing up out of the blue – and continually knocking Richard Castle's life out of orbit.

"Your welcome, Richard," Jackson Hunt smiles at his son.

"For what?" Castle asks. He's on edge, still trying to slowly morph out of the role he has just executed flawlessly back in the conference room – much to the surprise of both he and his wife.

"I assume there is a reason you are here beyond just keeping tabs on Richard," Kate intervenes, her voice decidedly softer than that of her husband.

"In fact, there is Kate," Hunt tells her. "But first, we need to get out of here – and not through the front door downstairs, as you have likely planned."

"How did you know that?" Castle asks, almost regretting the question immediately.

"Because it's what I would have done," he smiles, "under normal circumstances. But trust me, right now, we are operating under anything but normal circumstances."

"Why are we getting off on the second floor?" Kate asks, now remembering that Hunt had pressed the button for that floor.

"Because if I am correct, there is a world-class assassin somewhere out there – waiting for you and Richard to depart this building."

He sees the sudden fear that clouds the detective's eyes – very quickly – before she throws the mask back on. He nods, impressed. He understands – it is the natural reaction of someone who has been hit by a sniper. That feeling – that memory – you can suppress it, you can hide it. But you can never get rid of it. It is always there – lurking, lingering, just waiting for the right – or wrong – occasion to resurface.

Like now.

The door opens on the second floor, and Hunt quickly disembarks, now tossing his janitorial garb aside. Beneath it – he wears black slacks and a black turtleneck.

"Let's go," he tells them, holding the door open. "We're running out of time."

Reluctantly, Castle and Kate exit the elevator car, following Jackson Hunt down the hallway to the stairwell once again.

"Who is waiting for us," Castle asks as they begin to walk faster, more briskly.

"Later, son," Hunt tells them both. "I promise – first of all, let's get out of here in one piece."

They move quickly down the stairs, as Hunt glances down at his watch. He counts off another few seconds out loud, as they exit the stairwell on the first floor. He holds his arm out, causing both Castle and Kate to stop behind them. Holding them in place, he glances down the hallway toward the elevator, and sees the contingent of press gathered there. Glancing at his watch one final time, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small remote and depresses the small red button.

The explosion in the empty utility closet next across from the elevator sends sheetrock and splinters of wood careening into the foyer. The members of the media gathered there scatter – some falling down protectively, others running for the front doors, but all screaming for their lives.

"Shit, Dad!" Castle hisses, gazing at the carnage down the hall.

"Time for that later, too," Hunt tells him, with a smirk. "For now, move it!" he tells them as he now pushes his son toward the side door that he and the detective had entered through earlier. They are dashing into the street as an unmarked black car quickly speeds up toward the curb, within fifty feet or so of the front doors just down the sidewalk.

"In, quickly!" he tells the couple, who comply without thinking now, falling into the back seat, both now looking to put distance between themselves and whatever the hell is happening back there. Hunt, however, stands at the curb next to the front passenger door, gazing toward the front door of the building. Reaching into his pants pocket, he finds the second remote, and without pulling it out of the pocket, he hits a button. The door they just exited through blows outward, this explosion somewhat larger than the first.

The plaza is in pure pandemonium now, with uniformed officers running toward the building, looking to help anyone injured in the multiple blasts.

Jackson Hunt, however, isn't concerned with the police. He is scanning the crowd, looking for that one person – a woman – who he knows will not be panicking. She will be similarly scanning the crowd.

He finds her eyes a few seconds later, at the same instant she finds his. She is as beautiful as her reputation – the blonde wig be damned. He has seen her in enough disguises over the past day to pick her out of virtually any crowd – now that he knows what to be looking for.

She slowly lifts an impressive knife to her forehead, offering him a salute, which he returns with a small smile and a nod of his head before sliding into the front seat.

"Get us out of here, Coop!" Hunts exclaims with a little more volume than he intended. He's not an idiot. He knows he will have to face her soon enough. But he wants distance between them when that happens. He doesn't know of many – if any – agents that could take this woman in close quarters. And the forty or so feet between them right now is far from enough.

The car screams away from the curb, drawing a few sets of eyes – but for the most part, is ignored by the mass of humanity trying to escape what certainly is another terror attack on the city.

"Okay, I'm a reasonable guy," Castle yells from the back seat, "but just what in the FUCK is going on here!?" he asks. 'You just killed people back there! Innocent people."

"That's doubtful, Richard," Hunt tells him with such calm that both Castle and Kate have to work to control the sudden trembling in their hands.

"I was very careful, very precise with the settings," he tells them. "Just enough to get us out of there. There may be a few bloody cuts, a few broken bones. But all in all . . ."

"Acceptable," Major Terrance Cooper remarks as he puts the car through calisthenics the vehicle was not designed for, scooting in and out of traffic.

"What?" Kate exclaims, but both men in the front seat ignore her.

"Think we're tagged?" Major Cooper asks Hunt.

"I'd be disappointed in her if we aren't," Hunt remarks. We can check the exterior once we get to the airport."

"Airport?" Castle asks, now for the first time truly alarmed. For the first time, he seriously considers the possibility that – like months ago during his absence – his father is responsible for the current carnage that has been assaulting the city for the past few days.

Hunt doesn't respond. Instead, he gazes out the window, lost in his own thoughts as he watches the river outside, as the car speeds up the FDR.

"Three minutes," Cooper tells the car at large.

"You're sure it's still here?" Hunt asks, a smile on his face.

"Please," the major replies with a roll of the eyes.

Minutes later, the car screams to a stop at the New York Skyports on the lower East River – a seaplane base that does casual tourist excursions, usually from May through September.

"We're here," Hunt tells his backseat passengers.

"Let's go," Cooper tells them, urging them along.

"Now wait just a minute," Kate tries to say, but she is dragged along by Cooper.

"Detective – if we meant you harm, you'd be dead," he tells her. "But I promise you, that's a possibility if you don't get a move on, and I mean right now."

"She's coming," Hunt tells them casually, as he stares at a yellow cab barreling toward them.

"You're right, we were tagged," Cooper agrees. "No other way she could have kept up with us."

"Who is this _she_ that you're talking about?" Kate asks, as she moves toward the seaplane waiting in the water.

"Kate, if you don't shut up and move, you're going to find that the answer to that question has a finality about it!" Hunt tells her, forcefully. Something about his voice stirs both Kate and Castle into action. It is the first time she has heard or seen this look in Jackson Hunt.

It almost looks like . . . fear.

The foursome move quickly toward the aerial watercraft and begin to climb inside as the cab pulls to a stop and a woman dressed in all black disembarks. She clears the fence and is in a full sprint down the pier as the seaplane begins to pull away from the pier's edge, heading out into the river's open waters.

"Holy shit!" Richard Castle exclaims as he watches the woman in black stop at the pier's edge, her eyes focused on their craft through . . . binoculars?

"What's she doing?" Castle asks aloud.

"Getting information about this plane, so she can track us," Hunt replies evenly.

"How?" Kate asks.

"You don't want to know, detective," Major Cooper replies loudly so he can be heard, as he executes a climb and banking maneuver, pushing the craft toward the north.

"Where are we going?" Castle asks, holding Kate's hand tightly.

"Where _we_ are going isn't your concern Richard," Hunt tells him. "Where _you and Kate_ are going, however, is about fifteen or so minutes north of here."

"Where are you going to land this bucket?" Castle asks, glancing out the window at the waters below.

"Who said anything about landing?" Hunts says, as he turns and offers a smile at the couple behind him. "I have good news, and bad news. The good news is that we are taking you just across the border into Connecticut, where you are going to jump."

"What do you mean we are going to jump?" an alarmed Castle asks, his eyes growing larger. "That's not good news," he argues. "Jump where?"

"Out of this plane," the major replies, chuckling and exchanging a smile with Hunt.

"What's wrong with this plane?" Castle asks, now exchanging looks with Kate.

"Nothing is wrong with this plane, son," his father replies. "You just need to get out of here."

"I'm not jumping out of a perfectly good airplane," Castle argues, folding his arms across his chest. Even Kate finds it difficult to hold back a snicker.

"Detective," Hunts says, glancing back at Kate. "Kate . . . get him out of here. She can't know where we drop you off. That means no landing."

"Wait a second," Castle exclaims, now focusing on his wife, who sits next to him with a smile growing on her face.

"You know how to jump out of an airplane?" he asks, incredulously.

"Yes babe," she replies, hesitantly, before continuing. "I learned years ago . . . back at Stanford."

"Crap, Kate, don't you think that's something you tell someone before you marry them?" he asks, exasperated. "I'm a detective, I build walls around myself that you may need to knock down, I jump out of planes. What's so damn hard about –"

"So you two really _did_ get married?" Hunt asks, smiling as he changes the subject.

"As a matter of fact, we did," his son replies defiantly. "Wanted to invite you. But oh, that's right. We had no _freaking idea_ where you were or how to reach you."

"I sense a bit of hostility, Richard," Hunt remarks, still smiling.

Role playing at the police department aside, Richard Castle is definitely out of his element. Forced out of a building as it explodes, being chased by an assassin . . . and now sky-diving out of a perfectly good plane.

"Can we do this another time guys?" Kate finally asks, interrupting the bantering. "Why do we need to jump?" she asks, focusing on Hunt.

"Because she – the woman you saw on the pier – probably knows where this plane is right now," Hunt tells her. "And she is likely tracking where it goes. Jumping out will allow you and Richard to stay off her radar . . . and that way, even I won't know where you are."

"But you said just across the state line," Kate interjects, her mind now beginning to think more like the CIA agent's. "Why do we need to jump there?"

"Because the car I have stashed for the two of you is coming up in about ten minutes, after Coop circles around for a bit," he replies. "Hit the ground and don't tell me where you are going. That way, I can't give anything away if . . ."

He doesn't need to finish the sentence. At least not for Kate.

Castle, however, is another matter.

"What do you mean 'so you can't give anything away?' No one knows you or how to find you. Who is after us that has you so spooked?"

Hunt laughs aloud, as does Major Terrance Cooper. Even Kate cannot stifle her laugh this time.

"Spooked?" Hunts chuckles. "Good one, son."

He then turns to Kate.

"You know I'm right, detective," Hunt tells her. "I need you and Richard out of this plane. You'll land in a field and there will be a barn house at your drop site. The car is there. Use it to go wherever it is you and Richard need to go."

She stares at the CIA operative for a few seconds before making up her mind.

"He's right, babe," she tells her husband, as a look of relief crosses Jackson Hunt's face. "This way no one knows where we go. If he is this concerned, then I think we'd better listen to him."

"Tell me Kate, exactly when was it that you become the Jackson Hunt Fan Club president?" he asks. She knows the stress he is under. She knows that he has it inside him to do this. It's just he continues to try to suppress this new, unknown . . . and frightening side of himself.

"Just trust me, babe," she tells him, as she reaches across for the parachute that sits next to her husband. That's when she notices it.

"There's only one chute back here," she yells toward the men in the front seat.

"That's the bad news I was telling you about," Hunt admits. "You're going to have to buddy jump."

"What!?" Castle exclaims, looking back and forth between Kate and Jackson Hunt. And the damn major isn't even trying to conceal his laughter now.

Kate extracts the chute apparatus and finds the additional harness – and nods. Quickly, she strips off her coat, and begins to strap the chute on, ignoring her husband's whining as she hooks him up into the harness. It's made more difficult because of the size of the small seaplane. Finally hooked up, she begins whispering to him.

"You always said you wanted to join the mile high club, babe," she purrs into his ear.

"Inside the plane!" he yells back. "Inside the plane!"

"Thirty seconds, Kate," she hears Hunt yell back toward them.

"Thank you, Jackson," she tells him – and she means it. The more distance they have put between them and the city, the more she realizes that had he not shown up when he did, either Rick or she, herself, would likely be bleeding out at the police headquarters. She hadn't put it together until just this minute, as she was working to put the chute on.

"She's Russian, isn't she?" she asks Hunt, who cannot hide the surprise on his face.

"Yes, she is, Kate," he replies. "How did you –"

"Her name is Elena Markov," she replies. I met her . . . a while ago, under . . . very different circumstances." The look in his eyes is the confirmation she needs.

Just uttering her name, as her mind finally allows her to see the woman more clearly as she recalls the departure from the police headquarters, the blonde woman who stood out, calm amongst the panic, and the fearsome figure chasing them down the pier. She's Bracken's assassin. And that means . . .

"The pieces starting to fall into place for you, Kate?" Hunt asks her, giving her a knowing glance.

"Most definitely," she hisses, her voice hard again. It's an edge she's going to need for this jump.

"Good – keep that in mind," he tells her. "We're here."

Without another word, Kate reaches behind her, and opens the back door to the plane, and pulls Castle, who is already attached to her, even closer.

"Do you really trust me, Rick?" she whispers into his ear. Something about the seriousness of her tone focuses him into the moment.

"I do . . . with my life," he tells her.

"Good," she replies. "Then trust me now."

She suddenly falls backward out of the plane, pulling him with her, attached in his harness. His screams as he exits the plane – almost as high pitched as the plane's engine, leave the two remaining inhabitants of the plane laughing as they bank away, heading south.

The air is cold, and rushing hard at them as Kate turns her body and stabilizes them. She's saying something in his ear that he cannot hear because of his own screaming. She glances down, finding the open field below and pulls her shoot. They are launched upward quickly, which only intensifies the screaming from the large man attached.

Seconds later, as they begin to fly more gently through the air, he begins to calm down, as she begins to guide them toward the open field. She sees the barn house in the distance. So far, so good – everything is as Hunt had told them.

For a moment, she thinks about Elena Markov again. She immediately understands Hunt's concerns, without hesitation. Yes, Elena saved her life that night in the woods, but the woman also ruthlessly dispatched one of Vulcan Simmons' thugs so easily, so effortlessly – it was nothing short of both exhilarating and haunting at the same time.

If that is who they are up against, then they are truly in trouble. Kate has no illusions about her own abilities. While she doesn't really fear anyone – at the same time she is no idiot. She knows – and has known for a long time since that night in the woods – that there was a woman out there that she has no chance of defeating, if it ever came to that. She would probably never even see the woman coming.

Simmons' thug certainly didn't.

So yeah, as crazy as it sounded, Hunt's plan probably is the safest option for them right now. That is her final thought as she steers them to as soft a spot as she figures is available, and the two land in a nice jog before tumbling over together.

Seconds later, she hears the small chuckle from her husband.

"Okay, that was actually pretty cool," he tells her, his smile large and radiant.

"Oh I don't know, I couldn't tell from all of the screaming," she smiles in return.

" _Yeah, he will probably decide we need to do this every weekend now,"_ she laments to herself with a smile. She helps him extract themselves from the apparatus, and they bring it to the barn house with them. No need leaving it there. Just in case.

They find the vehicle exactly as Hunt had promised – unlocked with the keys in the glove compartment. They open the doors, ready to get in when Kate glances over at Castle, standing at the passenger door.

"Call Alexis, babe," she tells him.

"Now?" he asks. "Why do we –"

"Just trust me," she tells him. Again, something about her voice causes him to stifle any humorous sarcasm that begs to burst free. Seconds later, he hears his daughter answer.

"Hey pumpkin, it's me," he tells her, and suddenly, Kate reaches across and takes the phone away from him. She has walked around the car to his side without him noticing.

"Hi Alexis," she greets the young woman, putting her finger up to her mouth to Castle, and shaking her head.

"We need a big – and I do mean big and important favor, Alexis," she tells her. "We need you to pick us up at the train station in Stamford. Don't ask any questions just yet, Alexis – not until you are on your way. It will take you . . . maybe an hour, hour and a half. And Alexis . . . grab your father's gun. Don't leave without it."

The entire conversation causes Castle's eyebrows to raise to almost comical expressions. Kate explains seconds later as she hangs up.

"We have a lot to thank your father for," she begins, "but I don't trust him."

"Can't say that I violently disagree," he tells her.

Good, this will make this conversation easier.

"He said one of the benefits of us jumping here, and getting this car was to stay off the radar . . . even from him," she reminds him.

"And?" he asks.

"And I don't believe him," she tells him. "He's your father, I know, but he has proven time and time again that before anything else . . . even fatherhood . . . he is an agent. And as an agent, it doesn't make sense to allow you to leave and not keep tabs on you."

"Wait a second," he begins to argue. "He probably knew where we were all along. How would he know to be at 1PP today if he weren't already –"

"You receiving a subpoena to appear at police headquarters today was common, public news, thanks to the media," she reminds him.

They are quiet for a few minutes, standing by the car in the barn house, when he suddenly speaks up again.

"Let's check the car," he tells her.

"Forget the car, babe," she tells him. "We aren't going very far. That's why I had Alexis come to meet us down here. There is no way he will figure out which direction we have gone, when he comes back to find the car just a few miles away in Stamford."

He nods his head, both appreciatively and with sadness. For yet the umpteenth time, his father has proven to be trustingly untrustworthy. It is something that – someday – he is not going to be surprised by, or disappointed by. Sadly, that day is not today.

Kate sees the forlorn look on his face, and she knows where his head is. In some ways, she wishes that Castle's father had never come back into his life. Then again, had he not, then Alexis would probably be dead. She brushes the thought away, knowing that whatever happens, whatever pain the man manages to bring – it is worth it if for no other reason than Alexis.

Suddenly she begins to strip down, pulling the sweater over her head. She quickly inspects the sweater, before allowing it to drop the ground. She unbuttons her pants, and begins to slide them off, then realizes he is standing – paralyzed – next to her.

"Get undressed," she tells him. "For all we know, he may have bugged our clothes. We should check them out."

He can't contain the smile that crosses his face as he considers the woman he has loved for years. A familiar raised eyebrow warns her what is coming next.

"You know, Mrs. Castle," he begins, "if you wanted to see me naked in all my glory, all you had to do was ask. Although I do appreciate you coming up with a decent espionage excuse just as much."

"Are you going to talk, or are you going to get naked?" she asks, still smiling. "There was a time when all I would have had to do was –"

"Say no more," he promises her, and begins peeling clothes off at breakneck speed.

She glances at her watch, and smiles.

"Alexis won't be here for at least an hour. Probably closer to an hour and a half," she says, with a seductive smile on her lips as she releases her bra and closes the distance between them.


	7. Chapter 7

**Triumphant: Chapter 7**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Tuesday Afternoon - October 28, 2014, 3:27 p.m., at a shopping mall in Greenwich, CT**_

He approaches the black, four-door sedan cautiously, his eyes glancing to and fro in the parking lot of the large shopping complex. The car has been stationary – here at a mall – for a couple of hours now. That can't be a good thing, when they are supposed to be on the run. Richard hates malls, preferring other shopping destinations – and Beckett doesn't seem the type to pull over because of a sudden urge to wander through Victoria's Secret.

So – no – nothing about this is good right now.

"What are you doing, Richard?" he asks aloud, to no one in particular. He steps up to the car, when he notices.

The windows are down. The doors are unlocked.

He glances inside and sees nothing out of the ordinary . . . except for the note pinned to the dashboard.

He reaches inside and retrieves the note, which is folded in half, with the large letter 'J' written large on the front. Opening it, he frowns initially, but the frown gives way – grudgingly – to a small smile.

' _Good try, Jackson. We're a little harder to find than this . . .K'_

"Well played, detective," Jackson Hunt allows, as he turns, tossing the note back into the front seat, and briskly walks away from the vehicle. Knowing precisely where he son is certainly would have made things easier. It's difficult protecting someone who is hiding. Perhaps he should have been more forthcoming with the couple. But that is not in his nature – or his business.

He settles into the passenger seat of the chopper that the major had just landed in the back area of the parking lot. They need to get out of here, and fast, before they draw any more undue attention – such as from the local police department. After all, landing a helicopter at a mall isn't the most inconspicuous thing to do.

"Gone?" Cooper asks.

"Gone," Hunt confirms, putting his ball cap back on and into place, and raises the sunglasses to his face.

"Dammit," Hunt complains as they lift off, quickly putting distance between themselves and the shopping area below them. His mood lightens however, as he considers the recent actions of the detective, and his son. He is sensing – Richard's shrieking in the plane notwithstanding – an edge about his son that is new. And the detective, if anything, may have softened considerably towards her new husband, but still remains hardened and vigilant. Perhaps they may actually be of some use in the upcoming chapters of this little mini-war.

He brushes such thoughts away, closing his eyes and enjoying the flight.

 _ **Same Day - Tuesday Afternoon - October 28, 2014, 3:45 p.m., At a small diner in New York City**_

The small diner, decorated much like an old 1950's diner, is noisy this afternoon, with a much larger post-lunch crowd than is normally here. Elena sits at a table next to the window, her finger idly twirling circles in the cup of coffee sitting on the table before her. The noise is good – masking anyone around her from starting up conversation. She's an attractive woman – scratch that – she's something of a stunner if one takes a good look.

Black hair falling below the shoulders, large expressive dark eyes and almost naturally red lips – she certainly has that European fashion look down cold. Thin in build, she could easily pass for a runway model. Having men – and the occasional woman – step forward to strike up a hopeful conversation is not an uncommon occurrence for her. Pity the poor soul who may make that mistake this afternoon, however.

The woman is not in a socializing mood.

A master strategist, one who is always – _always_ – multiple steps ahead of her prey, Markov is unaccustomed to surprises like this. She is not used to making a move and said move not fully yielding the desired – _and expected_ – results.

Richard Castle was supposed to be in the city for a couple of days, at a minimum. That would have made things so much easier.

" _Don't leave the city for a few days, Mr. Castle. Not until we straighten things out here."_

That was the message the damn district attorney was supposed to deliver, had things gone according to plan. How difficult is that? It is true, she gave no specific instructions to the man. But she wasn't supposed to. In covert operations, it is always best to let the participants be willing, but unknowing. That is – allow them to do what they do, daily, weekly. Let them make their normal decisions without provocation. That way, they are completely in the dark of the more sinister – the more strategic – elements of the operation.

Perhaps her not-so-subtle message in the letter to D.A. Fred Sanderson was too much – perhaps it threw the new prosecutor off his game. So be it. As always, she will learn from this, in dealing with Sanderson in the future. For now, she is surprisingly at a halt now. She reflects on the events of this morning.

The bug planted in the conference room where Sanderson conducted his now ill-fated interview with Castle and his . . . _wife_.

" _So they did get married,"_ she thinks to herself. "Good to know. I can use that against them." She says aloud, now pushing the coffee cup away and picking up the mechanical pencil from the table. That's good information to have in her back pocket.

However, discovering that there is a harder side – potentially a darker side – to Richard Castle has been nothing short of a revelation. It is not often that Elena miscalculates by _under_ estimating an opponent, but it is clear from what she heard in the room that she has done precisely that with the novelist.

"It appears your time on Elizabeth's pet island has changed you more than I anticipated, Mr. Castle," she says softly, under her breath, with a bit of admiration, making notes now in her small spiral notebook. Well adept at the modern social tools – and weaponry – Elena long ago grew more comfortable using the old-school mechanics for planning purposes. Pencil and paper. Easy to make corrections. Easy to eliminate mistakes. Easy to dispose of, and impossible to hack.

She wonders – not briefly – if this new information is the universe's way of speaking to her, of giving her a gentle push in a different direction. She prides herself on being attuned to life's fickle discoveries – and reacting accordingly. She has also learned that these discoveries are never of insignificant consequence. You ignore these gifts from the universe at your own peril. This, too, she has learned the hard way.

She once again considers William Bracken, and his partner in peril, Elizabeth. She has often marveled how one mistake – one misstep, one miscalculation – can have life-long and life-altering impact. She closes her eyes, leaning back into her seat, putting the pencil on the table, and exhales a long, deep breath she did not realize she was holding – and smiles – allowing her mind to take her back, once again, some eight years prior.

 _ **FLASHBACK: Eight Years Earlier, 2006, at FSB Headquarters at Lubyanka Square, in Moscow, Russia**_

(Translated from Russian)

" _Do you understand these directives, comrade Gubanov?"_

 _Boris Vasilyev sips his drink in the stale, corner office, gazing over the square below from the third floor. A director in the Federal Security Service (FSS) of the Russian Federation – also known as the FSB – he smiles as he considers his star pupil, and the task he has just outlined for her._

 _Established decades earlier, the FSB is the security and intelligence arm of Putin's now firmly-in-control government, and stands as the successor to the once-dominant KGB of the old U.S.S.R. Placed under direct control of the Russian President by Putin years earlier, the FSB has a number of responsibilities, including economic security, counter-intelligence, foreign intelligence, border service, and anti-terrorism activities, among others._

 _The opportunity to place an agent – a sleeper of sorts – into the American sphere has long been an established objective of virtually any foreign government. Vasilyev, however, has grander designs. His field intelligence in the United States has identified an up and comer on the U.S. political scene – a senator from the State of New York. He seems perfect. Focused, ambitious, ruthless and narcissistic, he exhibits all of the traits they look for in a target._

" _I understand," Ekaterina Gubanov replies._

" _Gain his trust, Ekaterina," Vasilyev tells her. "You are a living weapon. I want you to be_ _ **his**_ _weapon. Prove your worth to him, early and often. I want you close to him. I want you to be his go-to resource when he needs those dirty, delicate jobs done._

" _I understand what needs to be done, Director," Gubanov tells him. She glances down at the dark, fur cap in her hands, then glances outside again. It is bitter cold, and a long-term assignment in America sounds nice. Especially Washington, D.C, their nation's capital. She has read about it, studied it – and now she has the opportunity of a lifetime. She has a chance to go there, establish roots, and establish the reputation she has always sought._

 _And perhaps live a bit of the American dream while she is at it._

" _He is married, of course," Vasilyev continues. "Will that be a problem?"_

" _Of course not," Gubanov dismisses. No man or woman – in any capacity – is a threat to her. She does not lack self-confidence for any situation._

" _This is why the universe placed me here – in this country, at this time in history," she tells him. "For this very purpose."_

 _The director chuckles, knowing the subtle terror that he is potentially releasing to the West. He stands, indicating the meeting is over, reaching into the drawer of his desk, and retrieves a packet._

" _There is an airline ticket inside, along with your new identity, a new passport, an American driver's license and social security card – all of the documents you will need," he tells her, handing the large envelope to his top assassin. "You will have ample finances, and we have already arranged for a dwelling."_

" _Where?" she asks._

" _Georgetown," he smiles, knowing enough about his pupil to recognize he has chosen well for her._

" _Perfect," she smiles, and for a brief instant, the director shudders. Her smile is real for him – or is it? It is a smile that has – at close range – preceded many an execution for the woman who prefers close-quarter kills with the knife._

" _What is my name?" she asks, putting the envelope under her arm – not even bothering to open it. She places her circular fur hat in place, looking for all the world like the beautiful European woman that she is._

" _Markov," he tells her. "Your name is Elena Markov."_

 _ **Still Tuesday Afternoon - October 28, 2014, 3:55 p.m., Back at the small diner in New York City**_

She shakes her head, bringing her focus back to the here and now. She does not think of her homeland that often anymore. Sure, for the first few months, it was a constant thought in her mind. Oh, she enjoyed America. But a small piece of her missed home. It was natural. Over the months however, she assimilated more – not only physically and functionally – but emotionally as well into American society.

And now?

She still considers herself Russian. But she has accepted her place in America, enough that she doesn't even consider the possibility of leaving. Leaving is an unacceptable option now. No, not even an option at all.

Once again, she considers how one mistake – one choice – can change so much.

"No, it was not a mistake," she says aloud, softly, smiling tenderly in a moment of rare genuine emotion for her. "She is not a mistake."

 _ **FLASHBACK: Winter of 2008, At a seafood restaurant in Boston, Massachusetts**_

" _What were you thinking, Ekaterina?" his voice rumbles – low and menacing – but still with the proper respect. He is no fool, he knows who he is speaking with._

" _The name is Elena now," she reminds him. "And I was doing exactly what I was ordered to do. I have gotten close, and gained his trust, I have gained his favor."_

" _You have gained much more than that . . . Elena," Director Boris Vasilyev counters, his voice measured, as he eyes the small but growing bump in his agent's stomach._

" _I will use it in my favor," Elena tells him evenly, her eyes matching and then defeating his own gaze, forcing him to momentarily look away. "He trusts me implicitly now. And as you can see, I have usurped even his wife's position in his life. Do not grow faint of heart now, Director," she warns. "Not when I am exactly where we want me to be."_

" _I did not want you carrying his child!" he argues, and quickly glances both ways to ensure no one is eavesdropping in on their conversation._

" _I carry more than his child, Director," Elena tells him – and now offers the smile to him. "I carry leverage."_

" _He has leverage now, too, Elena," Vasilyev counters. "Don't think that this child will remain an 'it' to you. Soon enough it will be a 'he' or a 'she'. What then?"_

" _She," Elena responds, "It is a girl. And she will be no problem to my overall mission."_

" _But how do you –"_

" _Director," she interrupts. "I am six months pregnant. Last week three elements of Washington's criminal element ended up in the morgue. They thought they had something on the Senator. He asked me to take care of it for him. Do I look weak to you? Do I look like I can no longer perform my duties?"_

" _No, of course not," Vasilyev replies quickly. "It is just that –"_

" _Woe to anyone –_ _ **anyone**_ _– who comes under such a delusion, Director," she tells him, her smile not even attempting to be kind now. It is the menacing smile of a predator, and once again, Director Vasilyev uses decades of training to contain the shudder that is exploding down his spine._

" _You have placed me here," she continues, her voice softening. "I have done as ordered. I have gotten close, I have gained his trust. And I have given him a reason now to always keep me close – where you and I want me to be, yes?"_

" _Yes," he admits, reluctantly._

" _Then trust me to complete this assignment," she tells him. "The Senator is perhaps one term, maybe two from a run at the presidency. Now is not the time to panic. There are always unforeseen developments. The master strategist simply builds those developments into the strategy – and still executes a checkmate."_

 _He glances at this woman who he has trained, and trusted. This time his gaze does not waver, and he makes up his mind. Snapping his fingers, he calls the young waiter over to their table. The young man rushes over, his white shirt and black pants still relatively clean, as this is the start of his shift._

" _A bottle of red wine," he tells the young man, and Elena Markov – for the first time this evening – relaxes into her seat. "We have much to celebrate here," he tells the young man. She is right – things cannot be changed. She is a master at strategizing – and adapting. He will trust her._

 _Plus – the one argument that she did not use with him is the one that carries the most weight with Boris Vasilyev. She is pregnant. The fact that she_ _ **is**_ _pregnant. Not was. Is. Bracken knows. And Bracken has allowed this. Which means that Elena is correct. She has gotten close, closer than he could have dreamed. He will trust her to make the most of this._

 _ **Still Tuesday Afternoon - October 28, 2014, 4:01 p.m., Back at the small diner in New York City**_

She gazes at her phone, at the photograph in her camera roll, and smiles.

"Oh Anna, you are so beautiful," she says softly to the picture.

Young Anna Markov, now five years young, lives at their flat in Boston. Keeping the young girl a secret from Elizabeth Bracken had been a challenge for a few months during the last few months of her pregnancy. Fortunately, part of the pregnancy occurred during the winter, allowing Elena to wear large coats, masking the pregnancy during those rare occasions where a face-to-face with the Brackens was necessary.

Keeping Anna a secret was a priority, simply because the one element that her superiors did not account for during their planning phase was . . . well, how can you say it . . . understanding who wears the pants in the Bracken household. Because impressive as he is, it is not the Senator. No, he has married a snake. One that Elena keeps a close eye on – not only for the sake of her mission, but for the sake of her daughter.

Elizabeth is as ruthless and cold a killer as Elena. Oh, Elizabeth might not be the one who pulls the trigger, or inserts the knife into the abdomen, or sets the charge in the building . . . but she is the one who orders such events. She puts them into motion. She would not hesitate to kill young Anna. In fact, she would probably enjoy it.

Leverage, Director Vasilyev had called it.

Leverage, indeed.

A live-in house-sitter ensures that Anna is always well-taken care of during those rare times Elena is away. Her daughter is always well-fed, well-dressed, well-groomed, and sees her mother as often as it is possible – which generally is three or four days a week. Except for times like now, where Elena is forced to spend more time 'on the road', as she tells young Anna.

It is fortunate – one of those favors from the universe – that Elena chose to keep her Georgetown home. As far as the Brackens know, that is where Elena Markov kicks her shoes off and relaxes. In reality, it is actually hours further north where her home truly is. Even William doesn't know where she and his daughter actually live. He knows that this is for his daughter's safety, and accepts her decision. It helps that she brings the young girl to Georgetown often enough, allowing 'Uncle Will' to see the young girl.

She brings the phone to her lips, kissing the image, and smiles one last time. Then, in a frightening flip of a switch, the smile leaves and a different mask emerges as she puts the phone away. She picks up the mechanical pencil once again, and grabs the small spiral notebook, and reviews the notes she has jotted down so far this afternoon.

"I will not underestimate you again, Mr. Castle," she says softly, under her breath, as she begins to do what she does so well: Adapt, and change with unforeseen developments.


	8. Chapter 8

**Triumphant: Chapter 8**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Tuesday Afternoon - October 28, 2014, 5:35 p.m., at Castle's Island Home in Connecticut**_

"So Senator Bracken is behind this after all," Alexis comments to the couple sitting with her on the wrap-around patio at their island home.

"That's ex-Senator Bracken now, and whether he is behind all of this, whether he is the mastermind or not is still up for debate," Kate replies, as she takes a bite from the apple in her hand. "But he is definitely involved. All I can tell you is that if _she_ is here, then he has to be involved. That would just be too much of a coincidence for her to appear in my life twice now."

"He has his own assassin?" Alexis comments again, and it is somewhat of a question as well as a statement of disbelief.

"Why is that so hard to believe?" Kate asks the younger woman. "William Bracken has had many people killed in his lifetime. Probably more than we realize. And the people he uses to do his dirty work are nothing more than assassins."

"I know, I know," Alexis counters. "But you usually refer to those people as henchmen, or thugs, or murderers. You rarely use the term . . . assassins. It just sounds so . . . so . . ."

"So final," her father comments. He sits next to Kate on one side, while Alexis sits on the other side of her father's wife.

"I was going to say vicious," the young redhead offers. "An assassin indicates a . . . what would you call it . . . a strategic pre-meditation. It means you have someone on hand, on staff, for one purpose, and one purpose only."

"I know what you mean," Kate agrees, nodding her head. "Henchmen, thugs – they are used for different purposes. Delivering messages, retrieving items, stealing things. But an assassin . . ."

"Has only one purpose," Castle remarks, now nodding with his wife. For a few seconds, the three are quiet before Alexis once again breaks the impasse.

"Well, your honeymoon period certainly has crashed and burned," Alexis chuckles. "Subpoenas, shady fathers, assassins . . . what's next?"

"Hush!" both Kate and Rick exclaim, staring at his daughter with looks of exasperation.

"Why would you even go there?" her father asks. "Don't tempt fate like that – not now, not given everything happening."

"So," Alexis continues, ignoring the concerns of the suddenly superstitious couple. "Do you think there will be any fallout over you leaving the city again, Dad? I mean, someone wanted you to go back there pretty badly. And now Kate says that there was an assassin waiting for you at the police station, and –"

"Well, that's not entirely accurate, Alexis," Kate counters. "I said there was an assassin waiting there. Whether she was waiting for your father or whether she was there for me . . . right now we just don't know."

"What we do know is that this assassin has shown up once before – on behalf of Bracken – but then it was to free Kate, to rescue her," Castle adds.

"But that was before Kate sent him to prison," Alexis remarks, exchanging glances with Beckett.

"True," Castle agrees. "And that has us wondering exactly what role Bracken had in my abduction. I think it's pretty clear he is involved. Somehow."

"You really believe that, Dad?" Alexis ponders.

"Putting it all together, yeah," he replies, brushing his hand casually across his face. "Captain Gates made a very compelling argument. Based on a conversation with Esposito."

"How _is_ detective Esposito?" Alexis smiles, chuckling, remembering how uncomfortable she had made the detective at her father's wedding.

"Focus," her father warns, sternly, not for the first time wondering what is going on inside his daughter's head.

"Relax, Dad," she laughs out loud. "I just like busting his chops. He's so easy."

"Moving on," Kate interrupts with a smile. "Captain Gates and Espo have a theory, one that Rick and I have danced around, but never fully committed to."

"Until now?" Alexis asks.

"Until now," Kate agrees. "They believe that the Brackens – but more specifically – _Mrs._ Bracken – was behind your father's abduction."

"What?" the younger woman exclaims.

"Kind of a black widow," Castle interjects. "You know how the female spider will –"

"I know all about the black widow, Dad," Alexis interrupts with an roll of her eyes and a smile, then turns back to Beckett. "What do you mean they think his wife was behind all of this? How is this –"

"There are two options, as she laid it out to me, Alexis," Kate tells her. "Option one – the ex-Senator is behind it all. But that would mean that he had means – from prison – far beyond what we have discovered. Option two – that his wife masterminded the entire affair – makes more sense. Especially after learning of some of her more ruthless tendencies from the Captain."

"But . . . but . . ."

Alexis Castle is having troubles wrapping her arms around this. In her mind – in her world, even one that has exposed the seedier side of humanity to her – it is rarely a woman who is behind the more nefarious schemes. Maybe a crime of passion, sure. But something this premediated?

Kate Beckett can see the conflict in the young woman's mind, and decides to resolve it quickly for her.

"Something you need to learn, Alexis," she begins. "And you may as well learn it now. Women are just as capable – sometimes even more-so than men – of conducting ruthless criminal campaigns. Don't be fooled by mainstream thinking that women act out only out of passion, or anger, or fear. Don't think that women only react, eomtionally. There are many women out there that scheme, that strategize, that plan just as well – if not better – than a man."

"And the fact that you so rarely hear about them," her father continues, "is not proof that they don't exist."

"It just means that they just don't get caught as often," Kate finishes for him.

Alexis is wide-eyed, her eyes flipping back and forth between the couple in front of them. Both are quiet for a few seconds, letting this little nugget sink in and find a home before continuing.

"Think about it, Alexis," Kate continues. "Her husband is jailed by me. So she jails my fiancé. The senator was often clothed in the standard orange jumpsuit . . ."

"So was Dad in the video," his daughter softly exclaims, realization setting in. And it isn't sitting well with her.

"There were dangerous predators around Bracken while he was in prison, constantly. People die in prisons. Violently. You can hear them dying from one cell to another," Kate adds.

"And there were dangerous predators on the island with me," her Dad continues. "And people died there. Right in front of me. Violently."

He reaches out to take his daughter's hand which is trembling now. It's not the first time she has heard this story – but it is now taking on an entirely different tone.

"Prison food for prisoners. Canned rations for me," he continues. "A single toilet, a single cot for a bed. A prison yard to exercise in."

"Either Bracken conducted this from his cell," Kate tells the younger woman who is now slowing coming to agreement with them. "And if that is true, then he easily could have conducted his own escape."

"Or . . ." Castle continues, letting the sentence hang in the air.

"Or . . . his wife ran the whole show," Alexis nods.

"Her abducting your father served two purposes," Kate remarks to no one in particular. "On one hand, it was a sick little vindictive play – a tit for tat if you will – against your father. On the other hand, it ensured that the one living person who had heard the audio tape against her husband and could collaborate the story behind it, was nowhere to be found during the preliminary hearing. And we all know how that worked out."

"That's quite a plan," Alexis muses aloud.

"Which tells us exactly the kind of mind we are up against," Castle tells his daughter.

"And this 'mind', if you will, also appears to be in control of a world-class assassin . . . one who your grandfather, with his considerable skills, seemed not too anxious to take on today," Kate adds.

"You noticed that also," Castle remarks, clearly bothered by the revelation.

"How could I not," Kate replies. At 1PP, in the car, on the pier, on the plane – it was clear that Jackson was trying to put as much distance between us and this woman."

"And on top of all of that . . . he lied to you," Alexis says sadly. "He was trying to track you and Dad, and find out where we are."

Kate doesn't reply. She simply nods her head. As does her husband. Both have slowly come to terms with today's revelations.

"So what do we do now?" Alexis asks.

"That's the bad part, honey," Kate tells the younger woman. "I really don't know." She glances at her husband, whose hands-in-the-air expression simply confirm his agreement with his wife.

 _ **Tuesday Early Evening - October 28, 2014, 6:00 p.m., In New York City**_

" _We open tonight's early evening broadcast with more on the bombing that occurred this morning at One Police Plaza here in the city – the site where author Richard Castle arrived for questioning from the City District Attorney. Our viewers may recall that a subpoena was sent out to Mr. Castle. However, the planned questioning was decidedly shorter than anticipated. For more, we go live to 1PP with Ramona Vasquez."_

The scene shifts to the cordoned-off exterior of the police headquarters building, where clearly an investigation is still in progress.

" _Thank you, Andrea. What began as a day of hope, with bright expectations of answers forthcoming turned into yet another scene of violence – this time here at our own police headquarters. Richard Castle and Kate Beckett arrived for questioning at roughly 11:10 this morning."_

 _Ramona Vasquez knows her next statements are going to put her in a bit of hot water with the management back at the station, who have a decidedly one-sided view of the current events. No matter, Vasquez knows there is more going on than meets the eye._

" _I must add that the subpoena that went out did so publicly since Mr. Castle's whereabouts were unknown. So it was a welcome surprise – and certainly a positive move on Mr. Castle's part, to show up today. Somehow, he and Detective Kate Beckett were able to avoid the throng of media waiting for them – this reporter included – and enter into the building unseen and unannounced. And as you said, according to District Attorney Fred Sanderson, the meeting was unfortunately shorter than he would have preferred."_

The scene now shifts to a pre-recorded video interview, outside the building earlier today, with the DA.

" _The Castles were vaguely cooperative this morning, Ramona. Their answers were short, and somewhat combative, and ended with them walking out of the meeting mere minutes after we began."_

" _Did you say 'the Castles', DA Sanderson?" she asks._

" _Yes. Yes, I did. They confirmed that they are now married – husband and wife. And while I can say I do not think they withheld any truths, they were far from helpful in providing any insight into what is going on here?"_

" _Is it possible,"_ Ramona asks on the pre-recorded video, _"that Mr. Castle is acting out of fear for his own life? Considering his recent abduction, and the fact that all of this is occurring because someone is out to find him?"_

" _That is possible, Ramo-"_

" _Possible, DA Sanderson?"_ she interrupts.

" _Possible yes,"_ he continues, then reluctantly adds, _"maybe probable. Still, the two were far from helpful in our requests."_

The scene shifts back to Ramona, standing live outside 1PP, filing this field report for the early evening news.

" _Now, it should also be stated that DA Sanderson was – and is – feeling considerable concern for his own personal safety right now,"_ she continues. _"We have learned from police contacts that this morning, DA Sanderson was the recipient of a threatening letter, one that clearly ties back to the death of his predecessor, DA Daniels. According to police, the letter stated, and I quote:"_

" _ **Caught your act on the news. Your predecessor wasn't very smart. Do I have to deal with you – and your family – also?"**_

Ramona pauses, glancing directly into the video camera before continuing.

" _All of this, Andrea – a threatening letter, citizens showing up for questioning and leaving abruptly – all of this culminated in two separate bomb blasts that – not coincidentally – occurred at the time of Mr. and Mrs. Castle's departure from the building. A departure that video cameras failed to pick up, as external cameras were temporarily disabled here at 1PP at the same time – indicating that we are dealing with someone not only ruthless and cunning, but technologically astute as well. There were no serious injuries from the explosions, but now we have more questions than answers. And the most important question police are asking themselves right now is simply this: Were Mr. and Mrs. Castle the targets of the bombs this afternoon, or were the bombs a diversion to cover their departure from police headquarters? Regardless – a brazen attack at our police headquarters indicates that this war – driven either against Richard Castle, or on behalf of Richard Castle – is now escalating. This is Ramona Vasquez, reporting live from One Police Plaza."_

 _ **Later Tuesday Evening - October 28, 2014, 7:43 p.m., at an Office Building on 38**_ _ **th**_ _ **in New York City**_

"It's good to see you again, Veronica. It's been . . ."

"Months," Veronica Walker smiles at her old friend and former client. "I assume television reporting is keeping you out of trouble?"

Both women laugh at the notion.

"Yeah, that's exactly what it does," Ramona Vasquez chuckles. "Take one of my current assignments. Richard Castle. You may have read some of his books."

"I . . . have," Veronica smiles subtly. "He is . . . an interesting man . . . and an interesting mind," Walker adds. "With an interesting life over the past months, it seems."

"You could say that," Ramona agrees, glancing over her shoulder at the noise coming from a room nearby.

"Amazing," Ramona shakes her head in amusement.

"Someday I'm going to get you to try it," Veronica tells her. "It will help you –"

"Relieve some stress, I know," Ramona smiles. "How long are you going to try to recruit me, Ronnie?"

"As long as it takes, Ramona," her friend tells her. "But that's not why you are here. So – why are you here?"

"Always to the point," Ramona whistles.

"Time is money," her friend replies with a smile.

"I have a favor," Ramona asks.

"That's new," Veronica smiles.

"No, I'm serious," Vasquez counters, and something in the woman's voice – or maybe it's her eyes – that centers the conversation for Walker.

"Something is off with this whole Castle story," Ramona begins. "The man is kidnapped, and while he is gone someone goes on a murder spree – looking for him."

"Supposedly looking for him," Veronica comments, taking a sip of tea, and leaving a perfect lip print of red lipstick on the tea cup.

"Supposedly looking for him," Ramona agrees, nodding her head. "Then he escapes, comes back to the city, and the murders stop. Then, he disappears again, probably because of public pressure mounting against him because of the death of District Attorney Daniels . . ."

"Nice man, average lawyer," Veronica smiles.

"Well, you would know a good lawyer when you see him."

"Or her," Veronica corrects.

"True," Ramona nods. Veronica Walker is one of the best known attorneys in the city. An ex-partner in one of the larger law firms, she now works on her own, handling only the more . . . interesting cases."

"So, what favor can I do for one of my few true friends?" Veronica asks, and there is no sarcasm or malice intended.

"I'm getting to it," her friend replies. "I'm sure you are aware that he has disappeared again."

"I watch the news," Veronica laughs. "Saw that he made a brief appearance this morning. Complete with fireworks."

"You could say that, yes," Ramona remarks. "The question is whether the fireworks were his, or intended for him."

"I was wondering that myself," Veronica admits.

"I'm going to share a secret with you, something I have not shared with my co-workers back at the station."

"Smart. They are morons," Walker muses aloud. Present company excepted, she has no love for – nor time for – the media.

"I have spoken with one of the police captains about this, and she – a Captain Victoria Gates – seems to be agreeable."

"Gates . . . Gates . . ." Walker gazes off to the wall in the distance, and smiles. "Ex Internal Affairs – Captain of the 12th now. I know of her. And Herbert. Her husband. A client of mine."

"In which capacity?"

"Not important," Walker smiles, and Ramona simply nods knowingly, and continues.

"You are aware that a murder occurred in Richard Castle's loft here in the city a few days ago," Ramona says.

"Yes, I heard about that, also," Walker replies. "He placed the 911 call himself. Which tells you that he is still in the city."

"Only he didn't place the call," Ramona corrects her friend. That catches her attention, as her eyebrows rise in surprise.

"Do tell," the attorney replies, now leaning forward and folding her hands under her chin.

"It was a recording," Ramona tells her. "A very-well done recording, but a recording nonetheless. It wasn't him – not live. I would know."

"And you haven't shared this with your station," Veronica Walker confirms.

"No," Ramona answers. "Not yet."

"Smart," the reporter's attorney repeats. "I wouldn't either. The minute you do, you are in danger. You know this, don't you?"

"Of course," Vasquez remarks. "I'm not stupid. And I've learned . . . discretion from you," she smiles.

"Good," Walker agrees. "If this is true – and I trust your instincts and competencies to agree that it is – then if this is true, this is a fake, then someone is playing a very dangerous game. I'm guessing that you want me to . . . ask around."

"You do have your ways, Ronnie," her friend and client replies, smiling. "And you know more about this city – the businessmen, the politicians, the celebrities . . . and I just wanted to make sure that – in your mind – I am being prudent in withholding this information."

"You've told the police," Walker tells her. "That's your only duty. Whether you tell your station is up to you – but I believe you have made the wise decision with your silence to them. There are – and have always been – far too many leaks at your station. I have felt the consequences of those leaks . . . personally, in the past, as you know."

"I know," the reporter agrees, then pushes the conversation past her friend's history with her television station. Nothing good will come from that.

"I think he's being framed," Ramona comments. "I think he's running scared. And –"

"Don't underestimate Richard Castle," Walker interrupts, smiling. "Or I should say, don't underestimate his wife. Interesting to see that he and the detective are now married."

"Yes, I suppose . . . wait . . . why do you say that?" Vasquez asks.

"Because I know him, personally. And her," Walker replies. "They visited me once – police case related, get that smirk off your face," she continues with a chuckle.

"He – Mr. Castle – was your typical wide-eyed novice," she continues. "I think it was his first visit to a dungeon. The detective, however, she was a cool customer. I don't even think they were dating at the time. I would suspect that the brevity of their meeting this morning was driven by her."

"Exactly how well do you know them, Ronnie? You said it was a police-related case. Did you take them on as a client?"

"Not exactly," Veronica Walker laughs. "I said they visited my dungeon, Ramona, not my office. Mr. and Mrs. Castle don't know me as Veronica Walker. They know me as Lady Irena."


	9. Chapter 9

**Triumphant: Chapter 9**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 8:50 a.m., at an Office Building on 38**_ _ **th**_ _ **in New York City**_

Veronica Walker sits at her desk – if you could call it that – sipping on a cup of morning coffee. The elaborate piece – part of a new collection of Italian furniture she had shipped in – adorns her massive office. The soft, ivory-colored piece sits – rather, almost floats – in the center of the room. The wave-oriented architecture gives a pure, ethereal vibe to the room. It resembles a cloud laying on the surface, with the matching armoire piece along the back wall behind the desk. The sharp contrast with the dark wood floor drives the perfect atmosphere - a bit foreboding, while soothing at the same time.

She sits in a similarly crafted chair, the soft colors blending into her off-white two-piece suit. Her long legs peek out at the knees as she pushes herself away from the desk, rising to meet the guest who has just walked into her office.

"Hello Herbert," she smiles genuinely. "Pamela informed me that you had arrived. I would have met you in the lobby."

"I know my way around," he offers in the most nonchalant manner. His gaze lifts throughout the room, taking in his surroundings.

"You've done some redecorating," he muses aloud. "Quite nice, Veronica."

"Did this just a few months ago, actually," she replies, smiling at his use of her given name as she walks towards him with her hands behind her back.

They keep their distance. She takes in the large, black man. He is in his early forties, a few years older than his wife, but it's not obvious. What _is_ obvious is that he's kept himself in shape. It's hard not to notice. Veronica Walker more or less left the business of law as a full-time practice years earlier, adopting this alternate persona of Lady Irena. As she has often said, she simply traded winning on one battlefield for another. She still does accept certain cases – at her own discretion – but focuses most of her time down here, in what she loves to refer to as her 'castle of dungeons'.

Herbert Gates was a client of hers on the lawyer front, some five years ago. His case was one of mistaken identity. He was – and is – the chief executive officer at New Quantum, a research facility that focuses on the hypothetical existence of dark matter. An increasingly competitive field – especially for the donations required for continuous funding – dark matter research had been Gates' singular passion, outside of his wife, until that night back in 2009 during the Christmas holidays.

The robbery at the liquor store just a block from his home was an embarrassment to both his firm, the NYPD, and one Victoria Gates. Sure, he strongly resembled the man captured on the video surveillance. And yes, his home's proximity to the robbery location weighed against him. Heavily. It was Veronica Walker who uncovered the ploy by a rival firm – one not even in the same scientific field – who arranged the attempted sabotage of New Quantum through the framing of its chief executive. It turned out that they were both competing for the same multi-million dollar funding from one of the city's wealthy donors who was vacillating between investing in astronomical discoveries and the latest pharmaceutical wonder.

As his attorney representing Herbert Gates, Veronica Walker met a family man dedicated to his wife. However, Veronica's alternate persona is never far from the surface, and she recognized something else in the CEO and his wife in their interactions. In them she saw complete love . . . and a distinct inability of intimacy. The lack of hands being held, the lack of touches on the shoulder, the sheer and sad awkwardness of their hugs goodbye were an open book to Walker, nee Lady Irena. In one of the few times she allowed her two worlds to mix, she opened up her secret to Herbert Gates. She chose approaching him as her . . . experience with the NYPD did not allow her the comfort of approaching his wife, at least not initially.

At first, Herbert was both frightened and intrigued by the woman's proposition. In the end, intrigue won out, and the executive and his Internal Affairs wife showed up at Lady Irena's House of Pain a few weeks after his successful acquittal. There she personally supervised their interactions with Lady Sapphire, and developed a friendship with the man. Their friendship bordered on thin lines, as the attraction between them was almost painful. Yet the research executive remained true to his wife, never straying across the line, earning the deepest respect from the lawyer/dominatrix.

"Well, I know you well enough to know that you didn't ask me down here to show me your new furniture," he smiles softly. "In fact . . ." He pauses for a second, gazing at the woman in front of him.

"In fact, you've never asked me down here by myself, period. Ever," he continues.

"True," she smiles. "Usually it is the other way around, I admit. The truth is, I must also admit that I need your assistance, Herbert. The type of assistance that required discretion."

"What kind of discretion?" he asks, his eyebrows slightly raised.

"The kind that requires you to keep our discussions away from your wife," she tells him. The momentary glimpse of fear that quickly paints his face brings laughter to Veronica's lips.

"Oh Herb, really," she laughs, now pulling the man into a long hug. "Do you think that I sit down here contemplating ways to pull you into my web?"

"Tease," he chuckles, welcoming the embrace for a few seconds before releasing her.

"Come, sit," she tells him as she walks away from him, moving back behind her desk once again, as he attempts – unsuccessfully – to keep his eyes away from the sashaying motions that envelope the woman.

"So how can I help you, Veronica?" he asks. "Or am I talking with Lady Irena this morning?"

"Ever astute, my slave," she smiles demurely.

"So, Lady Irena it is," he smiles in return, but his smile quickly turns to a look of confusion. "Okay, you've got me. I have no idea how I might help in that capacity."

"Kidding, Herb," she chuckles. Herbert always was fun. So was Victoria. She quickly brushes the thoughts away.

"I just wanted to see your reaction," she offers in a moment of honesty. "I have a very large favor to ask of you – information I need, in an official capacity, and I must insist you ask no questions."

"Discretion," he says softly.

"Discretion," she agrees. "And it will be quickly clear to you why I mentioned your wife."

"Please don't ask me for information about the NYPD, Veronica," he asks, and she can see the plea in his eyes. He owes her, yes. But he is also hopeful that whatever favors he owes won't include having to divulge anything that would put him at odds with Victoria.

"Detective Kate Beckett," Veronica/Irena begins, and she watches his face drop. "No, no, trust me, I am not asking for anything damaging to Victoria – believe me," she says, reaching across the massive desk, almost touching his hands that are resting there, just inches out of reach.

"I just want to know one thing, Herb," she continues. "Is the detective coming back?"

"Excuse me?" he asks, both relieved and confused. "I'm not sure I –"

"She's on leave of absence from the precinct, I already know that much, Herb" Veronica tells him, hoping to ease his concerns about giving away confidential information. "I'm simply asking if this is a permanent arrangement, or a temporary one?"

Herbert Gates looks away briefly, taking in the surroundings of Veronica/Lady Irena's lair. He smiles, remembering that's how he often referred to her surroundings in the past. The relief he felt when the charges against him were dropped is still fresh – all these years later – as he feared he was watching his entire life implode. She changed all of that. He makes up his mind. It can't hurt. He owes her. And until now, she's never called in any favors. Not one. And she isn't asking for details. It's a simple yes-no question.

Although the answer isn't quite that simple, he knows.

"She hasn't handed in her resignation, if that's what you're asking," he finally replies, gazing back at the woman who he trusts probably a bit more than he should. "But Vicki is worried about her, that much I know."

"Worried about . . . ?" she asks, still leaning forward.

"Worried about her coming back," he finishes for her. "She's not confident that Detective Beckett will be returning at all. And she spends a lot of time thinking . . . and talking . . . about the detective."

Veronica Walker simply nods her head, making a grunting sound.

"Why do you ask? And don't tell me it's nothing," he warns. " _Nothing_ is 'nothing' with you."

She smiles, relaxing back into her chair. The off-white dominating the room makes her look almost angelic. He knows she can be anything but when pushed.

"Pieces to a puzzle, Herb," she replies honestly. "Part of discretion means plausible deniability on your part. So don't ask questions that have answers you really don't want to know."

He nods in understanding, as she stands. It's her indication that the meeting is over. They always were fairly short where she was concerned.

"Nice lipstick, by the way," he offers with a small smile as he heads to the door. It causes a brief flutter in her stomach. He always did like the darker red, almost maroon lip gloss she would occasionally wear when the always-bright Mistress Red she traditionally wore would bore her. This morning, she unconsciously put on the darker shade. Until this very moment, until he pointed it out, she wasn't even aware of the different choice she had made this morning.

"I didn't think you noticed," she says softly under her breath, as she watches him walk toward the door.

"I have always noticed," he replies, just as softly, never turning back to face her. Instead, he opens the door, letting himself out.

"It was good to see you again," he continues, his back to her as he walks out, closing the door behind him.

She is silent for a few seconds before responding.

"Always good to see you, Herbert," she muses softly, then sits back in her chair, swiveling to face the large painting on the wall. She closes her eyes for a moment, then pushes those thoughts away, focusing on the task at hand.

"So you are still on the force," she says aloud, thinking about the detective. "That means you are probably close by. You had to be, if you were able to get to the so-called hearing with our illustrious D.A. so quickly."

She smiles, filing this information away, and turns to the computer monitor, and her hands begin typing on the keyboard, while the thoughts are still fresh on her mind.

 _ **Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 9:30 a.m., at the island home of Richard and Kate Castle**_

He is startled awake by the unexpected lack of presence next to him. She typically is awake before him, as her internal clock is still on 'cop time' as it were. Usually, however, she lays in the bed with him, waiting for him to awaken. Sometimes he wakes up and finds her laying on her side, facing him, staring at him with that smile. Other times, she is sitting up in bed next to him, reading. Still other times, she is writing something in her journal on her tablet. Perhaps someday she will share with him what secret thoughts are hidden inside those digital walls.

He brushes those lovely ideas away, as he reaches over to touch the sheets on her side of the bed.

Cold.

She's been gone awhile. For a moment, his heart clenches, as his mind reaches the top of the rollercoaster, and the car begins its downward plummet into darkness. Kate leaving him, sneaking away for some case, some reason to protect him – it's a common thing. It's what she does. And if she has left the island and headed back into the city – without him – well . . .

He pushes those thoughts away as well, now out of the bed, and walking briskly to the bedroom door. He is in the hallway and now almost jogging toward the front of the house, when he smells the cooking bacon, hears the sizzling from the range.

She's dressed in one of his long blue dress shirts – the kind he doesn't wear anymore. Her legs appearing even longer if that is possible, and her hair up in a ponytail. It's a good look for her. One he will never get used to. At least that is his constant thought, and hope.

"Hey babe," he manages, his voice a bit more scratchy than he realized.

"Hey yourself," she replies, smiling, walking toward him, the long forked utensil in hand.

"Got worried when you weren't in bed," he admits, scratching his head and bringing a smile to the detective's face, as he worsens his already disheveled hair.

"Just making breakfast," she muses, offering him a quick peck on the lips, which he extends to both of her cheeks.

"I never realized that you were such a prolific cook, Mrs. Castle," he offers with a smile and wiggle of the eyebrows. "Bedrooms, sofas, kitchens . . . is there no end to your –"

"Do you want there to be an end, Castle?" she asks, smiling with just a hint of a warning.

"No, no, no, not at all . . . that's not what I –"

"Didn't think so," she replies, as she turns and walks back to the range, and flips the bacon that is cooking there.

"Why'd you leave the bed?" he asks, reaching over to pick out a piece of pineapple that is on a plate. She has cut up pineapples and melons, tossing grapes along the top and edges. "A man gets used to having a beautiful woman next to him when he wakes up, it sort of throws him off when she isn't there."

"Worried I'd left?" she asks, not turning to look.

"No, not at all," he lies, then smiles sheepishly as she turns her head, giving him a look that tells him she's on to him.

"Okay, maybe a little," he confesses quickly. "It's just –"

"Its okay, Castle," she interrupts. "Anything concerns you have – or I have – are based on . . .

"History," he finishes.

"Yes, history," she agrees, then continues. "But that's all it is, babe. History. It's in the past. Do I need to go all Rafiki on you with this?" she chuckles, waving the long forked object at him.

"No, no, we're good, we're good," he laughs, then moves quickly behind her, wrapping his arms around her, nestling his chin on her shoulder as she looks over the bacon and cracks an egg.

"Good," she smiles, leaning back into him for a second, then releasing forward and turning to face him. "Because I've been doing some thinking. We have a lot to talk about this morning."

"Talk? As in?" he questions.

"As in making a plan. Strategizing," she tells him. "I'm tired of sitting on the sidelines doing nothing. It's time to take the fight to them."

"Them?" he asks.

"Bracken. Elena Markov. Whomever," she replies, turning back to the cooking breakfast, as if this were the most natural conversation in the world.

"Well, since you've already given this so much thought –" he begins.

"And you haven't?" she asks.

"Well, I have this hot detective who keeps me distracted during the evenings, so . . ." He lets the sentence hang out there. She doesn't bite. He's seen her in this mode. Focused. Scarily focused.

"She's still around, I promise you babe," she tells him. But there is a sternness in her eyes. Yeah, he recognizes that, also.

"And I want to keep it that way," she continues. "Putting an end to this . . . this mess we are in has just become my top priority. And much as I love this island, this home we have . . . . I'm tired of hiding."

"And what brought this sudden change of heart on?" he asks. "Not that I am against it or anything."

"Because I think I figured out what we can do, besides sit here and wait for the next shoe to drop. Or the next body to drop, given the way things have been going."

"Do tell," he replies, popping another grape into his mouth, now leaning back against the island in their kitchen. "Where do we start?"

"With a video," she smiles, flipping the bacon one last time before turning the gas burner on the range off, and grabbing two plates. She sees his look of confusion, and continues.

"Back at 1PP, your father saw an assassin. Elena Markov."

"Right, you met in already. Saved your life," Castle muses aloud, munching on grapes.

"You know, there won't be any fruit left for breakfast at this rate," she smiles and slaps his hand away from the rapidly diminishing plate of fruit.

"Uh, breakfast already started in case you didn't know," he chuckles.

"Anyway," she continues, "she was at 1PP. Waiting for us."

"I know. What are you thinking, Beckett," he asks, now morphing into serious mode with her.

"They have surveillance there. I think that Jackson said he had disabled some of the cameras, but I am thinking that the cameras he took out were only the ones that might have picked _him_ up. Not her."

"I see where you're going," Castle agrees, nodding his head as he moves to the tall bar stools at the island, plopping his large frame onto the one at the end.

"So I placed a call to Captain Gates this morning," she tells him.

"You _have_ been a busy, busy bee this morning," he replies with a look of surprise.

"I told you, I've been thinking," she responds, walking toward him with two plates now covered in bacon, eggs and toast. "I asked her about the likelihood that surveillance may have picked up what was happening in the lobby at 1PP, where all of the press was congregated."

"And?" he asks.

"She told me she'd look into it, and then asked me why I wanted to know. Who I was looking for."

"Did you tell her?" Castle asks.

"No," Kate replies honestly. "I told her right now, I wanted to flesh a few things out, but that I'd pull her in as quickly as possible once I had my thoughts in order."

"How are you going to review video though?" he asks. "That's asking a lot to get her to get the video to you . . . to us."

"That's where I was headed also," Kate admits. "But then it turned out Gates had something to share with me as well. A reporter came to her, with some interesting news."

"A reporter?" he asks.

"The one who has been doing most of the field coverage on you . . . well, on all of this surrounding you," Kate continues. "Ramona Vasquez."

"Vasquez reached out to Gates?" Castles asks with surprise. "What on earth for?"

"Turns out Ramona smelled something fishy about all of this, and she believes – rightly so – that who she shared this knowledge with could end up being the difference between life and death for her."

"Smart woman," Castle says softly, under his breath. "She did seem somewhat . . . "

"Fair-minded," Beckett completes his sentence. "I thought so, too. Turns out, she is something more than a pretty face behind a camera. Pretty good with editing media streams. Voice. Video. Particularly phone calls."

"She knows that 'my' 911 phone call," he asks, making quotation signs, "wasn't really mine?"

"Yep," Kate confirms. "She told Gates it was an edit job. A damn good one, but one she recognizes as fake."

"Yeah, I would be careful who I told that to if I were her," Castle agrees. "So why Gates?"

"Evidently Ramona figured that Gates would be the one person – coming from IA – who might just be above anything underhanded that might be happening," Kate replies. "And, since Gates has in-depth knowledge of both you and I . . . well, she figured Gates might want to actually help us."

Castle is quiet for a moment before responding.

"And so the worm turns," he muses aloud.

"I know," Kate chuckles. "And so early in the morning, too."

That earns her a kiss on the cheek as they begin to dig into breakfast. They take a couple of bites, not saying anything but simply relishing the moment together, before Kate continues.

"Anyway, Gates is getting Ramona in to look over the video," Kate tells him. "Gates wants her to point out all of the media figures she knows."

"Makes sense," Castle nods. "First eliminate all of the people who are supposed to be there."

"Right," she agrees. "And Gates will probably know any police officers or detectives that are hanging around in the lobby."

"That leaves only the unknowns," Castle speculates between bites.

"Right. And whoever is left, that's who we start to look at," Kate continues. "Kind of 'where's Waldo' in reverse. I want to know what Elena Markov looks like now. I only got a glimpse back outside 1PP but it didn't register, because I wasn't expecting to see her, wasn't thinking about her. But once Jackson told us that the person he saw there was an assassin, and a female, things fell into place for me. But I don't want to have to count on memory. I need to know how she looks now, what disguise she favors."

"Here's another thought," Castle adds. "If she really is working for the Brackens, as you believe she is, then we should also check out the surveillance at their home. Or at least at the hotel where they have stayed back in the city. Or maybe at his political rallies, any of the speeches he has made. She is there in the city, and they've been there. So it follows that –"

"She'd be in some surveillance around them as well," Kate agrees, nodding quickly, a look of satisfaction growing on her face. As usual, they are in sync.

"It's important to figure out what she looks like, how she dresses herself, so we can recognize her," Kate continues. "She's not a person who you want sneaking up on you . . . although we probably couldn't stop her if that were her intent, anyway."

"Are you expecting her to come hunting for us?" the author asks, just a hint of nervousness breaking through in his voice.

"Not at all, babe," she smiles – and it's a smile he hasn't seen on her before. "Like I said, I'm tired of waiting, tired of hiding. We're going to draw her out."

 _ **Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 10:18 a.m., at the office of Black Pawn Publishing in New York City**_

Gina Cowell sits in her office, staring out the window from forty floors above the street level, lost in thought. Her efforts at finding the 'next big catch' for Black Pawn have been mostly unsuccessful, but truth be told, her heart just isn't into this new search. She knows that they never should have let Richard Castle go like they did, and she finds it somewhat frightening that someone out there has the strings – and the strength – to pull the executives of Black Pawn along as puppets. The marionette show that she witnessed with the expulsion of Richard Castle was truly fascinating to watch.

"Ms. Cowell?"

The sudden interruption from the intercom of her phone startles her back to the present.

"Yes, Denise," Gina says after touching the intercom button on her desk phone.

"There is a Veronica Walker on line 2 for you," Denise tells her from the desk just outside Cowell's office. "Do you want me to take a message?"

"No, no," Gina replies quickly. "Put her though, please."

It is rare – very rare – that she hears directly from her attorney. She is, of course, well aware of Veronica Walker's alternate persona. Because she knows of her in both capacities, she idly wonders which one she is going to be speaking with.

On the House of Pain ledger, Gina is a distant client. She hasn't been to Veronica in that capacity for quite some time now. She first came to see Lady Irena after her divorce from Richard Castle. Their marriage failed for a number of reasons, primarily around the fences he set up around Alexis. But there were other little things she noticed as well. One of them pertained to their sexual relationship.

She learned quickly that Castle's first marriage came with wild, unrelenting and passionate sex. Oh, he never talked about it, and he never complained about the physical side of his marriage with Gina. But she quickly learned that he was far from a sexual novice, and – in fact – was more than experienced in things she had never even dreamed about. His appetite was almost insatiable, and any location was fair game. She eventually learned that this adventurous side came from experiences with Meredith, his first ex-wife. Gina's marriage with the author, however, was much more subdued, and she knew that the tame man she slept with had become cautious, ever-holding back, afraid to scare her away.

So Gina had come to the House of Pain – years ago – to learn to become more expressive . . . more demanding. She wanted to learn to be more open. In so many ways, her time with Irena's clan was successful, as Gina used what she had learned in her sessions a couple of years later, to lure her ex-husband away from his infatuation with a certain detective during a summer getaway to the Hamptons.

"Veronica?" Gina says into the phone, quickly sitting down. This is certainly not a call that goes on speakerphone. In fact, this is a call that she is surprised has come in on her office phone. Lady Irena, always discrete, would always call her cell phone if she needed anything, which quickly tells Gina that this is going to be a more business-oriented discussion.

"It's been awhile, Gina," Veronica replies. "How have you been?"

"I've been well, thanks for asking," Gina responds in kind. "But I know you, Veronica, and as you like to say, time –"

"Is money," Veronica finishes for her, as both women chuckle. "I won't take up much of yours."

"My time or my money?" Gina chuckles, giving both women another small laugh.

"I actually tried your cell phone first," Veronica tells her.

"You did?" Gina asks, surprised, and reaches inside her purse and retrieves her cell phone which she immediately recognizes is dead.

"Damn, I must not have plugged it in last night," Gina muses aloud.

"Distracted last night?" Veronica laughs.

"I wish," the publisher replies. "Not in the way you are thinking."

"Well, this isn't a conversation I'd like to have over the phone," Veronica tells her. "Can I buy you lunch?"

"Today?" Gina asks. Her surprise is two-fold. First, Veronica doesn't buy _anyone_ lunch. Or dinner for that matter. She never has to. Second, there is an urgency to the woman's voice – one that she hasn't heard there before. Ever.

"Is everything all right?" Gina asks.

"Yes, yes, no worries," Veronica tells her. "But there is something you can help me with regarding one of our old cases. But since we haven't seen each other in a while, I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone."

"Well, I've got Friday afternoon open for lunch, if that will –"

"Actually, I'm looking for something sooner," the attorney/dominatrix interrupts. "Sooner as in today."

"Today?" Gina replies. "No, I don't think I can –"

"It's very important, Gina, that's all I can tell you," Veronica tells her. "I wouldn't call if it weren't."

Gina Cowell pulls the phone away from her ear for a brief second, staring at the object as if it were some alien artifact. She places it back on her ear, now highly curious, as she reaches over to the mouse on her desk with her free hand, and opens her calendar on her desktop computer.

"Just a second, Veronica," she tells her old acquaintance and attorney as she glances at her battery of meetings for today. A few seconds later, she speaks again.

"Hold on Veronica, I'm putting you on hold," she tells the woman, and subsequently hits the intercom button again, summoning Denise.

"Yes, ma'am," Denise answers.

"Denise, pull up my calendar, please, and clear my afternoon."

"The entire afternoon?" Denise asks.

"Yes, please. Reschedule them into open slots next week," Gina tells her administrative assistant.

"Next week? Do I need to make travel plans for you?" Denise asks.

"No, no thank you," Gina smiles. Denise is always thinking ahead. "I will be sticking around in town. I just need my day freed up today, that's all."

Gina hangs up, then punches the main line on her phone to get Veronica back online.

"Veronica, thanks for waiting," Gina begins. "I'm free for lunch. Where, and what time?"

"Just come to my office," Veronica replies. "Noon works, we can leave from here."

"Uh . . . which office are we talking about?" Gina asks with a nervous chuckle.

"I know it's been awhile, Gina, but I'm sure you can remember where your attorney's office is," Walker smiles, and hangs up. The information she obtained earlier this morning from Herbert Gates was informative and interesting. A few answers from Gina Cowell and . . . well, who knows where this could lead.

 **A/N:** My apologies for the delays in chapters. A few things going on with one of my sons has taken a lot of my focus. Things are improving, so I hope to be able to post more often once again. That said, I will be traveling the rest of this week, so I don't anticipate posting Chapter 10 until sometime next week. As always, thanks to all of you for reading, and hopefully you will enjoy where I take this from here.


	10. Chapter 10

**Triumphant: Chapter 10**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 12:37 p.m., at Ellen's Stardust Diner in New York City**_

The rendition of 'Memory' from the Cats production fills the diner as the young, dark-haired woman stands on the ledge, allowing her voice to soar above the lunch-goers, closing in on the song's end. Patron's heads are lifted, their eyes bright and smiles brighter, amazed at the talent that takes orders and serves plates at this eating establishment. Veronica Walker and Gina Cowell are no exceptions.

The attorney-dominatrix finds herself lost in the song's words, indeed thinking of past memories and how different things might have been. Her publisher companion is no different as her thoughts travel along a similar track.

The two powerful women decided to meet here because it is loud – full of both tourists and city dwellers, and it is not the kind of place where people are watching other people. No, here all of the focus is on the singing waiters and waitresses – most of whom are very good and some of whom are downright outstanding. Some are between theatre gigs, and others are looking for that elusive first shot. Either way, the food is good, the atmosphere electric, and – ironically – here in this noisy arena of sorts, they find the privacy they seek.

The cab ride from Walker's office had been quiet, at Veronica's insistence. She doesn't want to have to talk in riddles, and doesn't want any ears – even a nondescript cabbie's ears – to hear this conversation. And being in a cab, there was always the possibility of electronic 'ears' of a different kind.

Now, however, they sit, smiling, enjoying the current song as a somewhat large waiter with a gorgeous tenor voice takes their drink order – water with orange slices for both women, who smile at the memory of that particular discovery.

The last notes of the song hang in the air, when Veronica chooses the momentary silence to jump right in.

"So, let me get right to it, Gina," she tells her lunch companion.

"About time," Gina chuckles. "Not like you to play all nice for so long."

Both women smile and Veronica lets the comment go. She knows the woman across the table from her well enough to realize no malice was intended.

"Why did Black Pawn let Richard Castle go?" Walker asks, taking another sip of water, ignoring the straw and moving an orange slice out of the way with her tongue.

Gina Cowell visibly retreats at the question, sitting back further into her chair. For a moment, Veronica wonders if she has miscalculated, if she should have been a bit more forthcoming on the phone.

"So this is the 'old case' you were talking about?" Gina offers, not hiding her disappointment. "Richard Castle?"

"I have good reasons for asking, Gina," Veronica interjects quickly. Gina is a friend. Veronica doesn't have many of these. She doesn't want to lose this one.

"Something is up with your former husband," she continues. "I can't say a whole lot, but I have had conversations with two different people in the past few days about Richard Castle – and both conversations scream that something dangerous is going on."

"Do tell," is all Gina says, her posture still defensive. Walker knows she has only seconds before her friend shuts down. She finds it an interesting reaction. Yes, Castle is Gina's ex-husband, but he's also Gina's ex-client, and the only reason he is the latter is because of Gina. Or at least that's how it looks. But things are not always what they seem. Walker is living proof of that little axiom.

"Your ex-husband - your ex-client - is being framed. From where I sit, it appears to me to be a very well-orchestrated job . . . which begs the question – who is doing it? And why?"

"The bigger 'why' here is why you care about it?" Gina comments, still leaning back, but now reaching for her glass of water, and sipping – through the straw – eyeing Veronica warily.

"Richard Castle is an . . . old acquaintance as you know," Walker replies. "From a past case, with the detective."

"Yes, I know," Gina responds. "But –"

"The 911 call after that murder in his home was bogus," Veronica offers up, suddenly, now opting for a more transparent approach.

"How do you know this?" Gina asks, now leaning back toward the table, engaged once more.

"I have it from a good source," Veronica replies. "A source that technically would know the difference, and a source that has no axe to grind, either way."

Castle's ex-wife takes in this information, knowing that her friend will not give up a source. She also knows that her friend's sources are always solid. Still, she finds herself wondering why her old friend would be involved with – or care about – this current situation with Richard Castle.

"So, he is being framed," Gina repeats. "What does that –"

"You don't seem surprised in the least by this news," Veronica interrupts, now reciprocating the wary eye her friend had afforded her. "You don't seem surprised – _at all_ – that Richard Castle may be in the midst of a well-planned frame job, and yet your company released him anyway, losing millions of dollars in the process. All of that publicity – positive or negative – _had_ to be good for Black Pawn. And for book sales. The marketing department of publishing companies like yours would kill for a Richard Castle. They desire publicity like air, and are supposed to be able to turn any publicity into revenue. That's their job."

She takes another sip of water, holding Gina's eyes with her as she does so, before continuing.

"So why bail on Castle? He was – and _still should_ be – a publisher's wet dream. You killed the golden goose while it was still laying glittering eggs. Now tell me, my pet, where is the business logic in such a move?"

Gina Cowell is completely disarmed by Walker's usage of her old term for her friend and former client. The dominatrix never used the term in a derogatory manner. In fact, 'my pet' became Lady Irena's clear, affectionate term for the publisher who was searching for herself a few years ago. The effect is instantaneous.

"I . . . we . . ." she stammers momentarily. Walker releases her temporary hold on the woman.

"Gina," she begins, now reaching across the table, placing her hand atop Cowell's hands. "I know you. I know you are aware of what Mr. Castle is – and is not – capable of doing. You knew that these charges, these insinuations were false, yet your company released him anyway. Why?"

Gina is quiet for a moment, staring into the eyes of the woman across the table, eyes glancing downward at the lips – bright red – that seem to just hover there. The woman is intoxicating, and it bothers Gina that this is still the case.

"Forget my lips, my pet," Veronica tells her, allowing the Lady Irena persona to again step forward momentarily. "You allowed a man you still love – and respect – and were banking solid revenue against – to be railroaded out. This makes one wonder –"

"Did you know," Gina begins, her eyes now staring out at the waiter climbing the table across from them, just seconds away from beginning a new song. "Did you know that Richard was incarcerated on an island during those months he went missing?"

"Yes, I heard about that," her companion replies. "It was on the news and in –"

"He killed two men to escape," Gina states almost mechanically, still watching the climbing waiter. "Brutally. Slashed them with makeshift weapons. Hasn't gotten over it."

This takes Veronica by surprise. Yes, it is not news that there were casualties down on that island. But done in so brutal a manner? By the author himself?

"I have to wonder . . ." Gina continues, 'Who is asking the questions here? Veronica Walker or Lady Irena?"

"Both," Veronica answers, and chuckles as Gina cannot contain her surprise. It isn't only the answer that surprises her – not just the answer itself – but that her friend would even offer an answer. This is the type of question that usually draws an easy deflection from people like Veronica Walker, and deflecting is something her friend is very good at doing. That she chooses not to deflect the question this afternoon is telling in itself.

"Let's just say that Richard Castle and Detective Kate Beckett are of interest to me," the attorney replies, her voice rising slightly as she leans in closer as the first notes of song leave the waiter's lips, just across the table. His singular tenor voice quickly rises toward the ceiling. Gina Cowell mimics the action, moving her head closer as well.

"As you know, I have history with them, from a prior case, and no I am not going into any more detail than that. But we all have friends, Gina, and one of mine came to me regarding our mutual novelist. This friend is convinced – and has convinced me – that Mr. Castle is being set up. Mr. Castle is being framed here. I have told you this already," Veronica repeats, her voice rising slightly.

"It did not take my friend long to convince me of this, Gina. Which begs my question to you: Why did you let him go? How hard did you fight for him? And why do you avoid answering these questions?"

"I _did_ fight for him, Veronica," Gina tells her friend, and now the frustration is evident on her face, bubbling into her shaky voice. "I did! I fought as much as I could, as long as I could, to keep Richard on board."

"Okay, so that is what I would expect, Gina," she tells her friend, and Gina is confused by the relief she sees on the face of her friend.

"What's going on here, Veronica?" she asks, but the attorney ignores the question, pushing forward.

"I know you, Gina. I know your stature at Black Pawn. I know the incredible level of influence you wield there, for many reasons. Yet here you sit, telling me that you were you unsuccessful in retaining your best client? Your most profitable client. This can only mean that someone at Black Pawn wanted Richard Castle gone. Badly. The question is who? And why? Who is pulling the strings of the emperor there?"

"You know the board members at Black Pawn as well as I do," Gina counters. The two women have moved even closer, their heads almost touching across the table in order to be heard above the singing.

"I do," Veronica agrees. "And none of them reek of such a streak of hatred for Richard Castle. But we know board members. They are connected to others outside. It is those connections I am wondering about."

"But I don't understand why this is so important to _you_ , Veronica," Gina counters, undeterred. "It's not like you to –"

"It is a favor for a friend," the attorney tells her flatly, her steely gaze boring into Gina Cowell's eyes. "A friend whose life could be in danger if word gets out that she has concerns about how Mr. Castle is being portrayed. I need to know who has the hard on for Mr. Castle, and the likelihood that my friend gets caught in these crosshairs."

Suddenly Gina Cowell smiles, and leans back into her seat again. Their eyes never leave each other before Veronica returns the smile and leans back into her seat also. Both are quiet for the next couple of minutes, listening to the singer across from them. The song finishes, and the restaurant bursts into applause, with the two women joining in.

"So . . . _how is_ Ramona these days?" Gina asks her companion.

"She is well," Veronica smiles, "and she is worth my time to determine what is going on here . . . for her sake."

"That must be quite a debt you owe to her," Gina muses, then shuts down as the waiter steps off the table platform across from them and walks to their table.

"Can I take your order, ladies?" he asks, smiling.

 _ **Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 12:45 p.m., at a restaurant just off Times Square**_

"You haven't touched your food at all, Will," Elizabeth Bracken notices. "We don't have much time before your next press conference this afternoon."

"I know that," he replies affably. "Just deep in thought is all."

"About the conference?" his wife asks.

"Please," he grunts with a dismissive wave of the hand. Nervousness over public appearances have long been a thing of the past with the politician. He stares out the window from their second floor vantage point above the narrow street below.

"What then?" she asks, her fork moving the shrimp and pasta noodles around the plate. "Based upon this morning's polls, this is looking less like a race and more like a slam dunk, Will. Everything with Elena is moving nicely," she says, her voice dropping in volume as she mentions the woman's name.

"That's the point," he tells her, still staring outside. "The calm before the storm. Things are really lining up nicely. And that just doesn't happen. There is always a hiccup, always a speed bump. I just am not seeing it right now."

"Perhaps it isn't there," she tells him. It is a surprise statement from her, a woman known to him more for her ruthlessness than optimism.

"It is there, trust me," he counters. "I just don't see it. And what I don't see, I don't like."

She merely nods her head, even though she disagrees with him. No matter. He is often out of the real inner workings of her strategies – and that of their assassin. William Bracken not knowing all of the intricacies is part of her plan. She enjoys her position as the power behind the player. It's a position that affords her greater vision of what is happening. And it's a position that – from his vantage point – often does not allow him to see the bigger picture.

He glances at her, and for the first time in a long time, begins to wonder about his wife's real motivations. Yes, he is out of prison because of her. Yes, his enemies are suffering because of her.

Then again, he has many enemies _because of her_. Her plans, her advice, her influence.

The waitress stops at their table, refilling the water glasses. William Bracken eyes the woman warmly. Her long brunette hair is pulled back into a ponytail, highlighting sky-blue eyes hidden behind wire rim glasses. She returns his smile, the braces on her teeth shining in the bright light coming through the window.

"Is the meal not to your liking, sir?" she asks, glancing warily at his largely untouched meal. She offers a nervous look to the couple. Ex-Senator Bracken is a well-known and respected patron here, and his satisfaction is of paramount importance this afternoon.

"Everything is fine, dear," Elizabeth Bracken replies for her husband, enjoying the minor discomfort being displayed by the waif of a waitress.

"He . . . we . . . are just a bit pre-occupied," Mrs. Bracken continues. "We are very pleased with our meal, though."

"Okay, thank you . . . thank you," the young woman expresses, almost taking a slight bow as she backs away from the table. Elizabeth cannot suppress a small chuckle at the sight.

"Really, Elizabeth," Bracken exclaims with a hint of disgust. "Intimidating young waitresses now, are we?"

"Oh, I do more than intimidate young girls," she replies darkly.

" _I swear, sometimes this man forgets his role,"_ Elizabeth Bracken thinks to herself. _"If he weren't so good with the public . . . and in bed . . ."_

She allows the thought to float away in the air of the small dining room, as she pushes herself away from the table, using her napkin to dab at her lips.

"Well, it's clear you aren't eating, so I am going to go and freshen up," she tells her husband, rising from the table. She walks briskly to the ladies room in the corner, passing the young waitress who is piling drinking glasses on top of the kitchen bar counter. She offers the young woman her best smile, which is returned sheepishly by the younger woman.

Back at the table, William Bracken takes his phone out of his pocket. He stares at it for a moment before replacing it back in the jacket inner pocket, and pulls out the smaller phone from the other side. Nodding at the burner phone, he quickly types in a text message as his wife disappears into the restroom.

" _When can I see Anna?"_ he types quickly, whispering the words aloud as he types. He quickly checks to confirm that all notifications are turned off on the device. He doesn't need any incoming alerts or notifications to catch the ear of his wife when she returns, and there is no guarantee when this particular message will be replied to. Elizabeth – as she does prior to every election he has been a part of – morphs into this draconian beast as Election Day draws closer. The last week is usually hell with her, and for this gubernatorial race, she is starting a few days early, unfortunately.

Elizabeth knows of Anna, of course. No, she was never aware that Elena was pregnant. The assassin hid their baby from Mrs. Bracken very well, all the way through delivery. However, both the then-Senator and his assassin decided that hiding the child forever would be nearly impossible, and when finally discovered . . . well, that just would not have gone down well. Better to concoct some believable story up front – about Elena getting pregnant in the midst of a mission – which was the truth, ironically.

And so that had been the story for these past few years. Elena had been on a mission that had taken her to Europe. A simple mistake of leaving a package of pills at home ended up with the assassin returning to the States – but not alone. It was a simple enough lie to tell the Brackens that she hid this news for two reasons. First, it was none of their business. Second, it was none of their business.

Those two reasons were enough to shut down Mrs. Bracken's curiosity . . . almost. Her final question to the assassin finished the job. The future governor of New York chuckles to himself at the table as he recalls that conversation.

" _But where is the father?" Elizabeth had asked Elena, warily. "Doesn't he want to be involved with his daughter?"_

" _Her father is not here," was Elena's simple reply._

" _I can see that," Elizabeth had responded. "What I mean is –"_

" _And what_ _ **I**_ _mean is that her father is not here," Elena interrupted, repeating herself, this time with special emphasis, more force, and that deadly smile that the woman usually saves for their enemies._

It had been enough. For a few years, Elizabeth dropped the matter completely. Over time, however, the more Machiavellian tendencies of the woman began to rise up, and when Elizabeth suggested to her husband that this young child now afforded them a bit of leverage over their assassin that they had never had before – well, such news was not received well by either the father or mother of said child. Of course, for appearances sake, William Bracken has had to appear favorable to such an idea. And unknown to either of the Brackens – and fortunately for Elizabeth Bracken – Elena Markov's European masters had determined that eliminating the wife of the Senator was not consistent with their plans. They wanted both Senator and wife alive and well. As Boris Vasilyev had reminded his protégé, the best covert operations were executed with the participants never even suspecting they were a part of anything. The emotional reactions and misgivings of Mrs. Bracken would end up playing into their hands.

Still – the ex-Senator is unaware of all of this. He knows nothing of Boris Vasilyev, or Elena's real mission in the United States. All Bracken knows is that his wife considers the young girl – who she does not realize to be her husband's daughter – to be nothing more than leverage. It matters not that the young girl considers the couple to be 'Uncle Will and Auntie Liz'. The girl means nothing to his Elizabeth. Why would she? All the better that Elena keeps the girl at a location even he is not aware of. He and his wife 'know' that the assassin and her daughter live in Georgetown. He alone, however, knows that Elena's real address is somewhere else. And the woman has gone to great lengths to keep that even from him.

He can't blame her. To be honest, it is a welcome gap of knowledge on his part. He knows that Elena's 'story' is that she killed the baby's father before returning to the United States. He also knows – deep in his heart – that Elena would not hesitate to kill the baby's real father if it came to that. He means to ensure that day never arrives.

He hears the heels of his wife's shoes clicking on the wooden floor, indicating her return. He glances up, seeing that she has reapplied lipstick and looks every bit the bombshell that she is.

He stands as she takes her position again, and sits at the table across from him. He, in turn, takes his seat, and glances up toward the waitress standing near the upstairs kitchen. He lifts a hand, and makes a writing motion in the air, indicating they would like to have the check. He watches the young woman as she vigorously nods her head, and disappears behind a makeshift half wall to prepare the bill.

"Feeling better?" Elizabeth asks, noticing that he does, in fact, look calmer than before.

"Actually, yes," he replies honestly. He glances at his watch. "Almost game time."

"Yes, it is," she agrees. "You do your part, Will. Leave the rest to me."

"You're talking about Castle?" he states – as both a question and a statement.

"Yes, the author," she replies, "his wife, his father. All will be taken care of shortly."

"Let's hope so," he concurs. "It would be nice to enter my first 100 days without the distraction of the detective and her husband. Let's hope Elena can take care of things on that end."

"Has she ever let us down?" his wife asks, nodding her head in understanding as he gives her a wink and a nod toward the approaching waitress. It is their cue to shut the conversation down.

"Thank you, my dear," he tells the waitress, handing her a hundred dollar bill. "Please keep the change, and give my regards to Marco," he winks.

The couple stand, as Bracken makes his way around the table to his wife, reaching down for her coat and wrapping it around her shoulders as she slips one arm in, then a second. It's a brisk autumn day outside, and the wind is just picking up. They exit down the stairs, Elizabeth's arm inside her husband's. To the outside world, they appear to be the perfect power couple – in tune, in lock step, in love.

Upstairs, the young waitress stands at the window, waiting until she sees the couple enter into the black limousine that has been waiting for them during their lunch. As it drives off, she quickly approaches the table just vacated by the Brackens. She reaches down into the soft flower arrangement and retrieves the small, white-colored bug that had blended in so well with the white roses and carnations. Her black ponytail has effectively hidden the earpiece in her right ear.

"They're gone," she speaks into the small bug.

"Roger that," Detective Kevin Ryan replies quickly. "Get your ass out of there now, before your dad hands us _our_ asses."

"Roger that back at you," the young woman smiles, making her way to the ladies' room. Once inside, she loses the wire-rim glasses and quickly pulls off the dark wig, takes a couple of bobby pins out of her own hair and shakes her head, allowing her long red locks to fall past her shoulders. Then she glances up at the mirror, opening her mouth and extracts the mouthpiece with fake braces, offering a sigh of relief as the obstructive piece is removed.

"Thank God that's out," she exclaims quietly to herself, noting that it was far more uncomfortable than she had predicted.

"What was that?" Ryan asks her.

"The mouthpiece. The braces," she offers. "Whose bright idea was that?"

"All Beckett's, you know that," he reminds her.

"That's Castle now, you know," she corrects him with a chuckle.

"Nope – always will be Beckett to us," he laughs in return. "Gotta admit, Alexis, it was a good plan. They never suspected a thing." He pauses for a second before continuing.

"Hold on a second, Red, the Cap is here."

She hears a bit of rustling and then the voice of Captain Victoria Gates is ringing in her earpiece.

"Everything go smoothly, Miss Castle?" the captain asks.

"Yes, ma'am . . . er. . . Yes sir," Alexis Castle corrects herself, smiling to herself at the terminology the captain requests her people to use with her.

"Good," Gates continues. "Then get out of there – and make sure you are still in disguise. Wherever the Brackens are, we have to assume that their assassin that Detective Beckett speaks of could be nearby at any time. Detective Beckett's plan . . . Detective Castle's plan, forgive me, did not include you getting caught."

The reminder freezes the smile on the young woman's smooth, pale face. She involuntarily glances around, and sees only Nate, the nice young man who buses dishes – whom she just met hours ago.

Getting Alexis Castle onto this shift had been easy enough. Fortunately, the Brackens dine here at this establishment for lunch every Wednesday they are in town – without fail. When Kate Beckett – now Castle – had decided to take the fight to the Brackens, she did so thinking like a cop. First step – surveillance.

It was no surprise to anyone that Kate knew so much about Bracken. It did surprise most everyone, however, that she knew the ex-Senator and his wife so well as to know their eating tendencies, down to restaurants by date and time.

As they put their plan together last evening, approaching the management of the restaurant was out of the question.

"Too big a chance that he is in Bracken's pocket already, given they dine there every damn week," Kate had told the team last night. Everyone agreed that was far too risky.

"Our better chance is to approach one of the wait-staff," Kate had continued. "Bring them in on a police action."

"It has to be someone, though, who is probably unfamiliar with the Brackens," Alexis had warned. She was clearly nervous since she was going to be the canary in the cat's lair, but it was tempered with a more than mild tinge of excitement.

"Better plan," her dad had offered up. "Let's put Alexis in there, but call Marco away. Tell him the police need his help with a line up, his wife has a flat tire – I don't care. But let's get him out of there, so that inserting Alexis goes off without a hitch. Get her in, get her out."

"You're sure you good with this, Red?" Detective Kevin Ryan had asked, drawing a glare from Javier Esposito.

"Little Castle will be fine," Esposito had countered, glancing at the red-head. "She's pretty good at role-playing," he had quipped, recalling an island debacle a month or so earlier. "Just make sure we get the girl she is replacing out of there."

"Already done," Captain Gates had replied. We already approached the young lady, under police business, and told her she was under surveillance until tomorrow afternoon. Detective Flannery is with her, and she is making sure she stays to the script."

Alexis shakes her head back to the present, returning now to the ladies room, where she had stashed her bag under one of the sinks. She retrieves the bag, pulls out a New York Mets baseball cap attached to a blonde wig, and once again pulls her hair back into a bun. Stuffing the cap atop her head, it allows the fake blonde hair to fall to shoulder length. She puts the wire-rim glasses on again, and competes the outfit with gothic black lipstick. The look will be exactly what Kate wants. She wants the young woman to be seen leaving the restaurant. She wants people to remember the Mets cap, and blonde hair, and green tinted wire rim glasses hovering over dark black lips. The look is nothing like Alexis Castle.

She walks out of the restroom, and down the stairs, looking like a misguided and lost customer. She glances left and right, then makes a motion of 'recognizing' the front door.

"Sorry, had to use your bathroom and it just couldn't wait," she offers to the passing staff. As expected, she gets a couple of looks – mostly frowns – as she steps into the sunlight a block off Broadway in Times Square.

She takes out her phone and sends a quick text. Three minutes later, as she stands on Broadway, a passing dark gray SUV stops at the curb in front of her. Opening the door and climbing into the backseat of the vehicle, she smiles at the couple in the front seat.

"Are you all right, pumpkin?" her dad asks, hurriedly. She has to smile. Early twenties and she is still his 'pumpkin'. She won't complain.

"Is everything okay, Alexis?" Kate asks, talking simultaneously with her father.

"Everything went fine, guys," Alexis tells them, while exhaling a breath of air she didn't realize she was still holding. She glances down at her hands, which are still shaking just a bit – enough that she notices. She forces herself to take a couple of deep breaths while listening to the conversation taking place in the front seat.

"We heard everything, Alexis," Kate tells her. "Nice placement of the bug, by the way."

"Did we get what you wanted?" the younger Castle asks the couple as Richard Castle makes a right turn, getting them away from traffic and heading to the small helipad just a few miles away.

"Oh yes," Kate smiles. "We just got a few questions answered."

"More importantly," Castle interjects. "We just found a new question to ask," drawing a nod of the head from his wife.

"What? What is it?" Alexis asks.

"Not what, Alexis," Kate corrects. "Who. As in, who is Anna?"

"And who was he posing that question to?" Castle asks aloud, as he drives along the busy back streets. Kate Castle – nee Beckett – is quiet as she ponders his question, a series of thoughts now formulating in her mind.


	11. Chapter 11

**Triumphant: Chapter 11**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 2:18 p.m., at the Hilton Midtown in Manhattan**_

The small ballroom is over-crowded, with wall-to-wall people - just as William Bracken had planned and hoped. The master politician knows how the media will portray the event. He can hear them now, reporting how the gubernatorial candidate had anticipated a small, intimate, late luncheon setting with some of his top donors, but instead ended up with the raucous and passionate crowd assembled here this afternoon.

It is not the type of event he would have done a few years ago, when his SuperPAC was humming along nicely. Until that bitch Beckett stuck her nose into things, that is – relieving him not only of his revered Senate position, but even in the aftermath of his release from prison, the SuperPAC fund is now out of the question.

As is the presidency he so desperately sought. At least for now, that is.

Yet another loss the man attributes to the detective in question.

In the back of the room, Elena Markov sits bored, her legs crossed and her fingers twirling the fake blonde hair in her wig. She sits at one of the back tables with a few of the Senator's supporters. She has been with the ex-Senator long enough to know his speeches, his catch-phrases, his mannerisms. She can almost – _almost_ – predict his words in advance, as she glances at the back of the heads in front of her, watching the heads nod like bobble-head dolls. He doesn't talk policy. Instead, he manages to passionately articulate exactly what he knows they want to hear. Her lips purse in disgust at the ease in which he manipulates the masses.

Her eyes cautiously drift from one person to another at the table with her, noting how each set of eyes is focused squarely and exclusively on the figure some one hundred and twenty feet away at the front of the room on the podium.

She marvels at how Bracken – always good on the speaking stump – has turned his abrupt dismissal from the Senate into a rallying cause, an 'us-against- the-world' mentality that his supporters feed on without a second thought. He has managed to tap into something deep, as his mass of supporters who are now fed up with politics as usual, ironically see the career politician as an answer to their plight and buy into his message without question or hesitation.

Elena shakes her head, not for the first time wondering about the sheep mentality of the American public that is so willing and eager to follow the voice of a persuasive shepherd . . . even if that shepherd is actually a wolf in disguise. And in this case, she muses to herself, a wolf with a far more dangerous mate that waits in the shadows.

She hears the voice of Jerry Ratcliffe, a reporter from one of the cable networks, which snaps her back into the present moment. Jerry is favorable to the Brackens, and his question from the press corps is another plant from Elizabeth. Jerry's question – in fact – is the entire reason for this particular speech and press conference this afternoon. There is always a primary reason or motivation for every public Bracken appearance. Although he may appear to be thinking on his feet and adept at impromptu questions – in reality – everything is staged and well-thought out. He is simply a consummate actor playing his role perfectly, executing his lines and his stories flawlessly.

"Mr. Bracken," Jerry begins, "You made an interesting comment a couple of days ago at a recent press conference that I'd like to ask you about."

The ex-Senator, as planned, takes a step backward and then moves from behind the protective embrace of the speaking podium and stands in front of the structure. He exudes confidence and transparency with the move.

"You mentioned, sir, that as it pertains to the recent rash of horrific murders here in our city, all of which seem to at least mention the name of author Richard Castle, you said sir – and I quote – _'perhaps things are not what they seem.'"_

All heads that were previously turned to face the reporter now pivot – in unison – toward the political candidate on the stage. Again, Elena is reluctantly impressed with how easily this crowd is manipulated. She is reminded of the marionettes she witnessed as a child back home in Russia, at the local theatres. In this case, however, it is a roomful of puppets, with a mass of strings towing them to and fro.

"Is there a question there, Jerry?" Bracken asks, ever smiling, and drawing polite chuckles from the audience.

"There is, sir," Jerry replies, as planned, now pulling the audience's attention back to himself.

"When asked what you actually meant by that," Jerry continues, "You responded – and again I quote – _'I have said enough – you can decide what to do with that.'_ So I ask you sir, what exactly did you mean by that statement – that things might not be what they seem? Is there something else you know that you are not telling us?"

William Bracken makes a show of turning toward the podium and grabbing the plastic bottle of water that rests there. He unscrews the top and takes a slow swallow, then replaces the cap, and holds the water bottle in his left hand, and casually places his right hand inside his pants pocket, striking the perfect pose of casual confidence and honesty. His smile disappears, and a more serious expression paints his face, reflected in his voice.

"It has been widely reported," he begins, his eyes remaining focused on Jerry for the time being, "that the violence that has beset our city has been laid at the feet of one Richard Castle by the media. And while I – like everyone else – am taken aback by the ferocity of these murders, of these crimes, I – at the same time – am not one to rush to quick judgement."

He makes a show of running his free left hand through his hair before continuing, as if contemplating a lost thought.

"Might I remind you," he continues, his gaze still singularly focused on Jerry Ratcliffe, "that I, too, was a victim of crimes being laid bare at my feet as well. Crimes that stripped me of my personal freedom. Crimes that stripped me of my service to this country in the Senate." He pauses for a moment, his gaze now lifting and scanning the crowd.

"Crimes that stripped me of my reputation."

He gazes at the sea of cameras and phones recording his every word, his every movement, and suppresses a smile as a number of his supporters shout their disgust at his 'framing.'

"No!" cries one voice.

"No, Will, we're with you!" yells another, as he raises a hand to silence the encouraging voices.

"I know, all too well, what it feels like to be framed, my friends," he continues, his voice remaining lower than normal. "As you know, those accusations against me were finally proven baseless," he reminds them, offering a solemn look to the crowd now hanging on his every word.

"Those accusations were proven to be lies, supported by falsified evidence. And at that time, everyone – including many of you – held me liable."

The cacophony of voices, rife with emotion, explode across the small ballroom, as person after person swears they were always loyal to the corrupt politician.

"Not me, Will!"

"Never!"

"I never doubted you, Senator!" a female voice cries out, using his old title. He again raises a hand to quiet the audience, but this time their pitch has risen above the single, calming gesture. He is forced to raise his voice to shout them down, to the pleasure of his wife sitting off to the side, and the admiration of his assassin sitting in the back.

"Please! Please!" he exhorts the crowd, "I meant no ill will to any of you with my words. None at all. You know me! You are my people, my extended family of sorts," he tells them, as scattered cheers and applause break out.

"My point is this," he speaks above the still-thundering noise, which forces him to raise his voice yet again. "My point, my people, is this . . ."

He raises both hands – one free, and one containing his water bottle – to quiet the crowd, which finally responds to his gestures and raised voice.

"My point, my friends, is simply this. I know what it is like to be falsely accused. I know the utter helplessness, and sadness and betrayal that consumes you when you are in that dark place. Friends desert you. Colleagues whisper behind your back. If you're lucky, you have family that stands strong with you."

He gazes back toward Elizabeth, sitting on stage behind him, and smiles, placing his fingers to his lips, offering a kiss as a salute.

"I was lucky in that respect," he offers, and then quickly continues.

"My point, my friends, is that perhaps this rush to judgement against Mr. Castle is nothing more than all of us – _once again_ – passing judgement prematurely upon an innocent man based upon circumstantial evidence."

"Circumstantial?" a female voice from his left asks out in a loud voice. He finds himself staring eye to eye, across the room, with Ramona Vasquez. He recognizes her, of course, from her in-the-field reporting of the events of which he speaks.

"Yes, Miss Vasquez," he repeats, "Circumstantial. At least I now believe it to be as such." He then turns back to the audience at large and continues.

"Many lives have been taken, in Mr. Castle's name. And in the most horrific manner. Obviously, one has to wonder if he had any involvement. But then I consider my own history, my own path that I was forced to walk against my will. And I begin to wonder . . . To slaughter a man in your own bed? To blow up your own establishment – a historic establishment to our city, no less? To torch your own vacation home? To uproot your entire family to an undisclosed location, as he has done with his daughter and mother . . . which by the way, can you fault him for that?"

Gazing across the room, he purposefully stops every four or five heads, and catches their eyes. It's important that everyone buy this particular story.

"Yes, I began to have my doubts," he continues. "Doubts which were – just this morning – confirmed for me. I can tell you that sources have shared with me that it is Mr. Castle's _father_ – not the author himself – who is the more likely perpetrator of these crimes."

There is a rising spattering of whispers and gasps that mask the stunned faces in front of Bracken, as he continues, now walking along the makeshift stage towards his left.

"It is Mr. Castle's _father_ who, again, we now believe, to have been the culprit of the rash of murders that occurred during Mr. Castle's absence months ago. Think about it, my friends. It would make sense that a man of his means would do anything to find his son."

"What do you mean when you say _'a man of his means?'_ " a question from the middle of the room is shouted out. Bracken cannot place the voice, but ignores it nonetheless. It's the story that is most important right now, not the details. He has learned – long ago – that it is the story, not the truth, which wins out. Repeat a story enough times, repeat a few key phrases enough times, and it becomes truth in the minds of listeners – even if the story itself is blatantly false.

He recalls Elizabeth's words from years ago – words that have stuck with him, and carried him to countless victories.

" _People believe what they hear, and what they read, Will – even if the words ring false – say them often enough, let them hear or read the words often enough – they will become their truth."_

He brushes the thoughts away as he continues his newest story.

"Now, why he has chosen to duplicate his former murderous spree is beyond any of us. And of course, we certainly cannot rule out the possibility of a copycat perpetrator . . . but even I admit that seems unlikely."

The bustle of activity in the room rises as a couple of reporters make their way – running – out of the ballroom, while scattered whispers begin to rise to the ceiling. Ramona Vasquez turns to Larry, who holds the camera atop his shoulder.

"You're getting all of this, right?" she whispers frantically.

He nods his head, wordlessly mouthing the word "absolutely" to his colleague.

"But why?" Jerry Ratcliffe asks, himself now standing. "Why – and exactly _who_ is this man who you believe to be Richard Castle's father?"

William Bracken gazes hard at the reporter, pausing for a couple of seconds before responding.

"I believe you can now see why I stated earlier that I had said too much," he replies. "I can tell you that much of this information – I understand – to be classified. Beyond that, I would pose that question to our friends at the state department. They are better suited to answer those questions."

He turns and walks back toward the center of the stage, and places the water bottle back onto the podium, then turns back to the audience.

"I won't be taking any more questions, my friends," he says with an affable smile. "I hope you understand - it's time for Elizabeth and I to take our leave now, but we will be here to chat personally for a few more minutes. As always, I thank you for your support . . . and your vote," he adds with a charming smile.

With that, the ex-Senator makes his way to the steps at the far right of the stage, and takes the hand of his wife, Elizabeth, who joins him. Together, they descend the three steps down to the floor level where the tables have been set up for this luncheon. Patrons begin to stand, eager to ever so briefly interact with the popular politician. Hand in hand, their smiles intact, the couple casually, but quickly, make their way to the second row of tables, shaking hands and exchanging hugs with some of their familiar friends and supporters.

Ramona Vasquez watches as the couple easily and effortlessly plays the crowd. She glances around for a few seconds before picking up her purse from the table. She begins to make her way toward the back of the ballroom and the exit, where Larry, her cameraman has already exited, wanting to beat the rush out of the room.

As he shakes hands, Bracken lifts his gaze toward the back of the room and finds the blonde wig, and the set of eyes behind it. Elena barely nods her head, and then slowly exits the room through the door some fifteen feet away from her. The explosion from the front of the room, underneath the makeshift raised floor on which the speaking podium resides, rips through the front of the ballroom, knocking virtually everyone still sitting or standing in the first row of tables to the ground.

William and Elizabeth Bracken are at about the third row of tables when the explosion hits, just beyond the shatter zone but still close enough to be knocked to the ground. Others behind them still milling about in the first row closest to the stage are not so lucky.

The secret service officials are immediately on top of couple, forming a protective ring, weapons drawn. One secret serviceman, a large Hispanic man, lies face down on the floor, caught in the blast. There is screaming and crying, as pandemonium quickly settles on the crowd, most of whom are now trying fervently to get to safety.

Within seconds, the Brackens are roughly pulled to their feet, mock fear plastered on their faces, as they are unceremoniously all-but-carried out of the ballroom by the remaining secret servicemen.

At the same time, phone calls are blasting across the city, now detailing the failed assassination attempt on the would-be-governor of New York. Ramona Vasquez stands near the back of the room with her mobile phone in the air, videotaping the mass hysteria in the room. No, it won't be the best footage for the early evening news, but it also won't hurt her already-rising status with a few of the competitor networks in the city. Getting a clean shot of the Brackens hurriedly pushed and pulled out of the room – mere feet from her vantage point near the door – will be played continuously through the night.

Outside the hotel, the blonde-haired woman jogs at a brisk pace, keeping pace with the frightened mass of humanity streaming out of the hotel. There is no need to draw attention to herself by walking calmly – even though she knows there is no further danger. Elena is satisfied with this afternoon's proceedings, knowing that by mentioning the potential involvement of Castle's father, Bracken has moved an important piece on her strategy board. The faked assassination attempt provides the flanking move, as she has now moved her most important piece into position onto the board.

She smiles as she considers the barrage of questions the current administration will now have to address, as she considers Castle's father once again.

The bait is set. Now it is simply time to wait for the mouse to come to the cheese.


	12. Chapter 12

**Triumphant: Chapter 12**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 8:52 p.m., at the 12**_ _ **th**_ _ **Precinct office of Captain Victoria Gates**_

All is mostly quiet outside Captain Gates' office, as the small night crew staff sits sprinkled across a few desks on the mostly empty precinct floor. Inside her office, a flurry of activity occurs between Gates and two of her detectives, pushing far beyond overtime for the day. With them, sits local news reporter Ramona Vasquez.

For the reporter, it has been a long and strenuous day even by her standards. A political luncheon to cover, which turned into a bombshell discovery . . . and then a literal bombshell of a blast. Amid the hustle and bustle of the day, adrenalin had taken over and the young reporter found the strength to push through, getting her report in, edited and broadcast for the early, pre-dinner news telecast.

Now, however, sitting in the precinct with her new colleagues-in-arms, so to speak, the full weight of how close she came to death weighs heavily on her. For their part, the detectives and their captain understand the emotional rollercoaster that threatens to derail the intrepid reporter, and they give her as much encouragement as they can.

"You going to be okay?" Detective Javier Esposito asks the young reporter. She has two shaky hands holding a cup of hot coffee that only occasionally makes its way to her lips. She nods her head, silently, as her eyes scan the video feed on the display in front of her.

She had already made this appointment with Captain Gates to review the footage from the lobby of downtown 1PP before the explosions that had rocked the police headquarters days ago during the all-to-brief visit from Richard Castle and his new wife. Today's events – another explosion – have lent a sense of urgency to tonight's proceedings, and everyone is now on edge.

For Esposito and Detective Kevin Ryan, a scenario where there is an explosion associated with ex-Senator William Bracken isn't all that surprising. That the politician was the _target_ for the explosion? Yeah, that's surprising. And worrisome. No one likes assassination attempts. City officials get their dander up over assassination attempts, as their self-preservation tendencies kick in. And sure enough, the call from the mayor's office, demanding information and results, came in to the precinct faster than even Gates could have predicted.

It is taking all of their discipline to stay focused on the original plan – to scan the video in search of that one face that doesn't belong. The plan is to review the footage, eliminating those people – in the media for Ramona and in the police department for the three 12th Precinct officers who are familiar to the makeshift team.

"It's all interconnected somehow," Gates tells the group as they continue to stare at the feed from days ago. "Someone is playing an elaborate game. We stay with the original plan until we –"

"Right there," Ramona suddenly speaks up, pointing her finger at the screen. "Back up again, go back," she instructs Detective Ryan, who uses the mouse to slowly rewind the video being displayed.

"There!" she points again, her finger resting on a blonde-haired woman standing towards the back of the gathering of media types.

"I don't know her," Ramona states. "Never seen her before."

"Me neither," Ryan admits.

"Are you certain, Miss Vasquez?" Captain Gates asks, as she looks to Esposito who also shakes his head.

"I'm positive," Ramona confirms. "All of the people so far have been accounted for – either by your team here or by me," she continues. "But this is the first time I have seen this woman, and I don't know her."

"I agree," Esposito tells the group. "Maybe she was hanging out of range before . . ."

"Which means she knew where the cameras are and intentionally stayed out of view," Detective Ryan adds.

"But why move into range now, when –"

"Look at everyone," Gates calmly interrupts. "Everyone has looked toward their right, and the camera jostled just a bit," she tells them, moving her hand over Kevin Ryan's and rewinding the view just a bit again.

"See . . . right . . . here!" she tells them. Indeed the camera seems to shake a bit, and people's heads begin to turn.

"The explosion," Ramona whispers, as Gates nods her head.

"That's why she moved," Esposito concurs. "She has come forward just a bit, to see what the commotion is all about. That's what everyone is reacting to."

"Now look at her," Ryan adds. "She's leaving . . . and now she's out of the picture again."

"Can you give us the outside feed, just outside this door?" Ramona Vasquez asks, her adrenalin once again kicking in, giving her a shot of energy.

"Let's see," Detective Ryan replies, as his fingers whisk across the keyboard entering commands before a new view is pulled up.

"We need to go right to that moment, to that time-stamp," Gates begins, but Ryan interrupts her.

"I know, sir," he tells her. "I made note of it. Moving quickly to that point now."

It takes eight to ten seconds to find fast forward to roughly the same time-stamp. A few seconds later, the group is watching the feed from outside the front door of the 1PP lobby at the same time. A few more seconds pass when they see what – or rather, - who they are looking for.

"There she is again," Esposito mentions casually. They watch the woman with blonde hair walk out, toward the street . . . but then, inexplicably, she stops. While others are rushing out of the building and doing all they can to get clear, in case there are more explosions, the blonde-haired woman simply stands along the sidewalk."

"She's looking for someone," Captain Gates remarks, to nodding heads around the monitor.

"Maybe Castle and Beckett?" Ryan asks aloud.

"That's Castle and Castle, bro," Esposito remarks with a snicker.

"Kind of like a Hart to Hart episode," Ryan smiles in return.

"You're watching way too much TV Land, dude," Esposito returns with a soft punch on the arm to his best friend.

"Married life, man," Kevin Ryan replies. "You should try it."

"Not if it means a lifetime of 70's television," Javier retorts. It's all Gates can take.

"Gentlemen. Really?" she asks, her glare going back and forth between both men.

"Sorry, sir," Esposito tells her quickly.

"Still, it makes sense that she's looking for them, right?" Kevin chimes in, trying to pull the conversation back to the video feed as quickly as possible.

"And it looks like she's found them . . . or at least whomever she was looking for," Ramona interrupts. "Look!"

"Damn, look at the size of that blade!" Esposito marvels, while Ryan whistles. They watch the blonde offer a salute of sorts with the knife, which seems to appear out of nowhere.

"Where in the hell did she pull that from?" Esposito adds.

"From – her - chest" Ramona remarks, her voice taking on a comic, mimicking tone.

"Ah . . . A Grease fan," Esposito chuckles, becoming more impressed with the reporter with each passing minute, and earning a reciprocal arm punch from Ryan.

If any of this bothers the captain, she doesn't let on. She knows that her men are on edge. Hell, _she's_ on edge. She allows them their means of blowing off steam.

"Let me in," she tells Kevin Ryan, as the detective slides his chair out of the way, allowing her to roll herself into position in front of the monitor from her own chair. She quickly performs a screen capture and saves the image, and – with deft fingers flying across the keyboard – sends the image, along with the URL link of the video feed, to her email account.

She then stands, and walks behind her desk, away from the conference table where they have congregated, and retrieves her cell phone. Accessing her email account, she pulls up the image, and saves it to her phone.

"Just a second," she tells the detectives and reporter with a quick glance. "This won't take long."

"Sending that to Beckett?" Ryan asks.

"I am, Detective," Gates replies without preamble or explanation. She pulls up Kate's contact information, and shares the image with her still-on-leave detective. She then forwards the URL link to Kate's email.

"Wait a minute," Ramona Vasquez announces, standing up quickly and looking from Gates, to Esposito, to Ryan and then back to the captain once more.

"You know how to reach Beckett?" she asks, incredulously with surprise. "You've been able to get in touch with them all this time? While the entire city has been looking for them?"

"Of course I can get in touch with _her_ ," Captain Gates smiles sternly, giving the reporter her first taste of the Gates glare. " _She_ reports to me. _She_ works for me. I can reach _her_ any time I please."

"Then why haven't you?" a now-confused Vasquez asks. "You could have potentially headed off a lot of what has happened. Why didn't you –"

"Because no one asked me to, Miss Vasquez," Gates replies evenly but honestly. "I've been asked how to reach Mr. Castle, and I have honestly replied that I don't know," she lies. "Fortunately, no one asked about using my detective to reach him."

"But they're married and –"

"Until a few days ago, none of us were aware of their new marital status," Gates lies again. She doesn't enjoy doing this, but she has just met this woman. Moreover, under no circumstances was she prepared to give her friends up. It startles the captain when she suddenly realizes that she does – indeed – consider the Castles her 'friends'.

"If anyone had asked me to reach out to Detective Beckett to attempt to reach Castle, then I would have told them the truth."

"Which is?" Vasquez asks, undeterred.

"That those two spent more time here arguing and fussing – even as an engaged couple. Who would know what was going on with those two – especially after Mr. Castle disappeared?"

She's not satisfied completely with the answer, but all eyes shift to the captain when her phone dings, indicating an incoming text message.

"That Beckett?" Kevin Ryan asks, as Captain Gates nods her head in the affirmative.

The message on her phone is simple and to the point.

 _BECKETT: That's her._

Suddenly, all heads turn to Ramona Vasquez, whose attention has suddenly returned to the still image of the blonde woman holding a knife to her forehead in a salute, on the monitor.

"My God," the reporter whispers softly.

"What is it, Miss Vasquez?" Gates asks.

"What's wrong?" Esposito asks as well, moving to the woman and glancing down at the monitor. He glances back up at the reporter, and notices the fear all but dripping from her eyelids.

"I saw her!" Vasquez announces, still in a whisper. "She was there. Today. At the press conference. I saw her!"

 _ **Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 9:17 p.m., at an upscale hotel suite in Manhattan**_

Kate Beckett-Castle sits cross-legged on the large, expansive bed in the bedroom portion of the large suite overlooking the massive city. She has her tablet on her lap as her husband sits next to her, glancing over her shoulder. They have reviewed the image that Victoria Gates sent as a text to her cell phone, and her email chirps, indicating that she has an incoming email. She opens her in-box, and finds the email note from Gates. Seconds later, the couple wordlessly watch the video feed.

Castle can tell that his wife is studying the blonde woman. She uses her finger to pull back the video a few seconds, watching the scene again. And again. She is making note of her mannerisms, her face. He also notices the shiver she attempts – unsuccessfully – to suppress.

Alexis Castle sits at the foot of the bed, watching the couple as Kate tosses her phone to the young woman, allowing her to view the image as well.

"This is her?" Alexis asks, also noticing the discomfort suddenly enveloping her father's new bride. Kate merely nods her head.

"Are you okay, Kate?" Alexis asks.

"I'm good, Alexis," Kate tells her, clearing her throat, but it is clear to both father and daughter that she is nervous. And with good reason, Castle notes.

Without exception, it is the first time that Kate is preparing for a situation where she honestly, truly believes she may not survive.

Sure, it's always a possibility as a police officer. But you get used to the nerves, you channel them. They become a positive, eventually. But right now? She considers Elena Markov – a dark-haired version of the face that stares back at her. She considers the large knife in the woman's hand. She considers that night in the woods, just a couple of years ago, when she met the woman late at night, and witnessed – first-hand – what the exotic beauty could do with the weapon. She considers the fact that she never even heard the woman coming. Fortunately for Kate, neither did the man who was trying to kill her.

Yeah, she is worried about facing this woman. She is worried about surviving the encounter. And this worries her all the more. Even back a few years earlier, when she and Javier Esposito went temporarily rogue, going after Cole Maddox – even then, although it turned out to be a complete disaster – she still went into that fight thinking she would win. _Knowing_ she would win. She went in thinking that it would all turn out all right.

Okay, yes, the fact that she ended up hanging by her fingernails from the ledge of a building, only seconds from a certain, flattening death, if not for an overtime rescue from Kevin Ryan had been unexpected. But going into that fight – it was one she was confident she would win.

But now? Tonight? She is nervous.

She and Castle and Alexis watched the early evening news and heard Bracken's bombshell. They both realize that Elena is simply trying to draw Castle's father back out into the open. They both consider it too much of a coincidence that the politician stood at the podium for over half an hour, yet the blast occurs less than a minute after he leaves the stage?

No, that is too tidy. Too pact. He was never the target – they are sure of this. But his words – his words indicate who the real target was – and is.

Jackson Hunt. Castle's father.

Now, watching the video from 1PP just shared with them by her captain, another thing is clear to Kate.

"She wasn't looking for you," she tells Castle. "Or me, for that matter."

"How do you know?"

"Because she never even looked at you or me," Kate tells him. "Look here," she continues, again using her finger to slide the video backwards a few seconds.

"See . . . right there," she says, pausing the video. "That's when she sees him. Your father."

She allows the video to play a few more seconds before pausing again.

"See . . . here again – she's pulled out the knife, but her eyes haven't changed, haven't moved. Now she salutes him."

"Brazen" Castle mutters, as Alexis scoots up the bed and settles in next to him, watching the video with the couple.

"That's one word for it," Kate muses aloud.

"Think back, babe," she continues. "Do you remember his face? Jackson's face? He was almost . . ."

"Afraid?" Castle finishes for her. "No, I don't think 'almost' is accurate. He was beyond 'almost' afraid. He was fully there."

She nods her head in agreement.

"He wanted to get out of there, pronto," she recalls, thinking about their hurried escape from 1PP after their quick conversation with the new DA. It was clear that Hunt was anxious to get away. Now, it is just as clear that he was not necessarily anxious for his son's sake . . . but rather, his own.

The knock at the front door of the hotel suite startles all three. They chuckle as the pent-up stress slowly releases from the room. Still, she immediately reaches for her gun as she and Castle both make their way to the front door.

"No, you stay here," Castle tells his daughter, ushering her back toward the bedroom before rejoining his wife at the door. She glances through the safety peephole, and gasps in surprise as she offers him a sideways look.

"What? What?" he asks, watching her warily as she opens the door.

Both of them stand with startled expressions as a face from their long distant past stares back at them, smiling. Castle's eyes invariably drop and stay at the plump red lips, and the tongue that teasingly wets them.

"Well, are we going to stand here and stare at each other, or are you going to ask me in, Mr. Castle?" Lady Irena smiles seductively, secretly pleased at where his eyes have landed, and remained glued.

 _ **Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 9:44 p.m., in another hotel room in Manhattan**_

Elena Markov lays in bed, her wet hair still bundled in a small, white hotel towel from her shower. A larger towel wraps around her otherwise naked body. It feels good to get out of the wig. She feels as though . . . it's almost as though she is a different person when she enters into her different personas.

She prefers her natural self.

She hears her phone chirp, and she smiles. She knows the tone, recognizing Boris Vasilyevs ring tone. Her smile broadens as she sees the text message and opens it. Inside is a photograph – an image of Jackson Hunt, in disguise of course.

In the photograph, he is walking through Penn Station in downtown New York City, after disembarking from an incoming train. The timestamp is 8:57 p.m. this evening.

He's in the city.

Her smile is pure menace as she nods her head subtly, knowing that the final piece has been moved into its proper place.

"Checkmate," she says aloud, typing the words in a return text to Vasilyev, knowing that they are finally approaching the endgame.

 _ **Thursday - October 30, 2014, Early morning at the Four Seasons Hotel in Paris, France**_

The autumn breeze has picked up outside, and Boris Vasilyev smiles at the view outside his penthouse suite at the luxury hotel along Avenue George V.

He gazes at the tall steeple of the large chapel just across streets from his window, and smiles at the response from Elena Markov on his phone. Indeed, the endgame _is_ approaching.

After all, that is what this entire game has been about for Elena – that's been the big plan from Vasilyev all along – to identify the identity of this formidable opponent – this super-spy from the United States – who seemingly moves in the shadows with impunity. Attaching Elena to the up-and-coming Senator was only part of the plan. It was well known in the circles in Moscow that the Senator was being groomed by his party for the presidency at some point in the future. Inserting Elena into his sphere of influence, as a trusted confidante – well, that ensured that _she_ was close and influential to the future president, when that occurred.

And therefore, by extension, Moscow.

Finding out that the spy-in-question was – in fact – Richard Castle's father? Finding out that the future potential president was also a murderer who had – by extension – taken the life of an attorney roughly two decades ago? And that the daughter of said attorney had become a detective in New York . . . and professionally and possibly personally attached to the one-and-same Richard Castle?

Well, sometimes things just work out.

Discovering that he was Richard Castle's father led Vasilyev to order the kidnapping of the man's granddaughter just a few years ago – as a way to draw him out into the open. It was a beautiful plan, one that was supposed to end with the death of Hunt. And it was successful in drawing him out – but a complete failure in all other ways as very few were left alive after the CIA man's rampage through the streets of Paris.

Having learned a valuable lesson, and vowing to never again underestimate his enemy, Vasilyev now uses a very different tactic – pulling his own ace spy into the game, hidden inside the political machinations of the deposed Senator who had attached to her in the first place.

Now Hunt, their dreaded enemy, is reacting – not planning. Bracken's speech 'called' him to New York, and the CIA man has come running. Running right into the web of Boris' best assassin.

"In another day or two, you will be dead, Mr. Hunt," Vasilyev muses aloud, smiling. "And our tool, Mr. Bracken will be governor of the most important state in America, and back on track to the presidency."

Yeah, sometimes things just work out.


	13. Chapter 13

**Triumphant: Chapter 13**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 **A/N:** Okay, I apologize that this is coming much slower than I wanted, given the story was outlined a long while ago. Work has been busy on multiple fronts, and it's been an interesting time in our house, with Mom now living with us, my wife's father already living with us, and now his sister visiting. And here we thought we were ready to be empty-nesters once our youngest heads off to college this fall. It's always interesting to see life get a life of its own. I know many of you are nodding your heads at that one. I would say that I plan to pick things up, speed up the postings – but I'd be painting far too optimistic a picture.

And with that – off we go…

 _ **Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 9:30 p.m., at an upscale hotel suite in Manhattan**_

"I know you," Castle finally manages to croak, his gaze flip-flopping between the woman's eyes and lips. Yeah, he remembers her. As does his wife.

"So do I," Kate comments, stepping forward, ever so slightly blocking their guest from entering the room.

"Good, so we all remember one another," Irena, nee Veronica remarks, smiling. "Should I –"

"As I recall," Kate interrupts, "you walk a line between two very different worlds. I'm curious as to which capacity you are here in, tonight?"

"As a friend, I assure you," the madam replies easily, then quickly tiring of the gamesmanship, she steps forward, brushing past a stunned detective and novelist.

"And this is a conversation that – I promise you – you do not want to have in the halls of a hotel," she remarks, turning back to face the couple.

"How in the world did you find –"

"There is very little that I wish to know that I do _not know_ about in this city, Mr. Castle," she interrupts, then smiles more broadly. "I know that sounds like a riddle, but it is not. There are very few hotel managers in this city that I do not know – and fewer still that are not, in some way or fashion, beholden to me in some capacity."

She turns toward the center of the room, then glances along the wall at the make-shift mini-bar.

"Do you have anything good to drink?" she asks. "This may take a bit of time, but I bring you information I think you would want to hear."

Kate and Rick exchange glances with one another – No, they aren't about to welcome a long-lost face into their sanctuary right now – given everything that has happened. Kate walks casually over to the small table, and retrieves her handgun and police badge, showing both to the now-surprised woman.

"You may have heard that someone seems to be looking for Castle – and they don't seem to have the best of intentions. So you'll forgive us, but we have – for very good reasons – taken steps to make ourselves invisible here in this city. Yet here you stand, in our room, evidently after scouring your own sources to find us – which means other people know. You have just endangered both of us - _and_ our families."

"Now hold on a moment, detective," Veronica pauses with her hand in the air, but the detective is having none of it.

"No, Ms. Walker . . . or Lady Irena . . . or whatever role you are playing tonight – we don't _have_ a moment. And neither do you," she says with surprising menace, catching even Castle off guard.

"Now start talking," she tells the woman, putting her badge away but leaving the handgun in her right hand, plainly visible.

"I promise you, that is unnecessary," Veronica tells them, now regaining her vaunted composure, and smiling at Castle. "As I said, nothing that is of interest to me happens in this city without me knowing," she smirks. "The benefit of knowing the right people . . . in the right way," she continues, as she stands and makes her own drink, raising two sets of eyebrows in the process.

" _She's got stones, I give her that,"_ Castle muses barely under his breath.

"I placed a few calls late last night, after a conversation with a good friend," Veronica begins, "but more on her later. I placed a few calls, asking a few . . . city colleagues in hospitality . . . to be on the look-out for you, Mr. Castle. Or you, detective. They were to alert me if they suspected you were here."

"That's a bit far-fetched, given Kate and I were in disguise, and I didn't use our either of our names to check in, or pay," Castle argues.

"Ah, but I know a little about you, Mr. Castle," Veronica smiles, now turning to face the couple, glass tumbler in hand.

"I knew you wouldn't use 'Castle', but I also figured you would not stray too terribly far from your identity . . . who you are . . . or who you create," she continues, the smile still adorning her face.

"Rodgers, or Alexander," she muses aloud, taking a sip of her drink. "Or Storm," she smiles.

"Damn," he whispers aloud, shaking his head while a look of acknowledgement quickly passes across Kate's face. Neither action goes unnoticed by their guest.

"So," Veronica continues, now walking toward the sofa and taking a seat there, "When a Jackson Storm checked in, looking an awful lot like a taller, heavier John Lennon . . ."she chuckles, placing a hand on her chest. "Well, Bradley downstairs had his radar on full blast, thankfully."

"I need to change that," he says softly to Kate.

"I would if I were you," Lady Irena concurs.

"How do we know he won't be calling the police . . . or anyone else, for that matter?" Kate asks, eyeing the woman suspiciously.

"Oh I wouldn't worry too much about that, Detective," Veronica tells her, but her eyes remain on Richard Castle. "Unless Bradley somehow forgets what I know about him and his . . . preferences, he won't risk the alimony or the child support," she chuckles. "Trust me, he won't say a word to anyone."

"So why are you here, then?" Kate asks again.

"I have a friend," Veronica begins, now turning her focus to Kate. "She is a reporter here in the city, and she has been –"

"Don't tell me," Kate interrupts. "Ramona Vasquez?"

"Yes," Veronica replies quickly, unable to keep the surprise from her face, which in turn is met with a smirk from Kate.

"How did you know?" the attorney/dominatrix asks.

"She approached my police captain," Kate remarks, now pouring herself a drink while Castle sits in a large chair opposite their guest.

"It turns out she was questioning the direction being given her by her station," Kate continues, but decides to stop there. She wants to know what the woman in their room knows.

"It goes a wee bit beyond that," Veronica agrees, taking another sip. The bright red lipstick leaves a mark on the glass, which Castle is unable to tear away from. Kate again sees the effect of the lipstick – and its wearer, filing the information away for future use, with a small smile.

"She suspected that Mr. Castle was being framed. A notion which, as I understand, was replicated by our esteemed future governor this afternoon," she continues. "She was afraid that her knowledge of certain information might place her in danger."

Veronica watches Kate nod her head, and continues.

"I also had a very nice lunch with one of my favorite publishers today. You know her very well, Mr. Castle," she says, her attention now back on the man sitting across from her. She smiles as he reacts.

"Gina?" he asks, glancing over to Kate. Both are immediately suspicious of what Gina Cowell might have given away. Veronica/Irena seems to sense this, and decides to put them at ease.

"Do not worry, Mr. Castle," she continues. "Gina is a very good friend to you. A loyal friend. And to _you,_ Detective," she adds, eyeing Kate.

"The love she has for you, Mr. Castle, extends beyond the selfish ownership tendencies I normally see with people. It includes your new wife here, which is an amazing thing, if I may say so."

Kate walks to the sofa and now sits beside their guest, a couple of feet away, glancing between the woman and her husband.

"Anyway," Veronica continues, "Gina helped me understand how some very powerful people wanted you out at Black Pawn, Richard. May I call you Richard?" she asks, but does not wait for a reply.

"Now, that just makes no sense – them wanting you out," she tells the couple. "Your publicity – good or bad – was doing wonders for your book sales . . . which I am certain you learned, went through the roof, by the way, during your . . . your absence."

"That's not important right now," he begins, but she interrupts him, her hand raised.

"On the contrary, Mr. Cast . . . Richard . . . it is of extreme importance, extreme relevance. Your book sales, according to Gina, increased slightly over twenty-four percent in the time you were gone. Not just one book," she reminds him, "but _all_ of your books still in print. _All_ of them increased. Now I don't know the publishing world as you do, but even I recognize how astonishing that is. So, Mr. Castle, you tell _me_ – what book publisher watches an incredible double-digit increase in sales across an entire line of books and decides they don't want that?"

"I am sensing that you already have an answer to that question," Kate remarks.

"In fact, I do, Detective," Veronica tells her, turning her head to acknowledge Kate, before turning her attention back to Richard Castle.

"How well do you know Franklin Wallace, Mr. Castle?" she asks.

"Frank?" he asks quizzically. "He's been at Black Pawn for as long as I can remember. Good man, a bit ambitious, but –"

"Less good," she interrupts, "and far more ambitious than you realize, Mr. Castle."

"How so?"

"Okay," Veronica replies, putting the glass tumbler on the table atop a hotel coaster. She leans back, crossing her legs. Kate smiles with relief as she notices her husband's gaze does not follow the motion.

"First, trust me when I say that a person of my position and . . . relationships . . . has access to a variety of information sources," Veronica continues. "One of those sources allowed me access to certain emails within your former publisher that –"

"We are dancing on shaky legal ground here," Kate interrupts, a frown on her face.

"Do you want to know what's going on here, or do you want to discuss legalities, Detective?" Veronica asks her. She doesn't wait for a reply, but turns her focus back to Castle.

"Long story short – Franklin Wallace has designs on a more powerful professional trajectory. He has been – unofficially, mind you – offered a position inside the governor's administration – assuming Bracken wins the election. Which seems a foregone conclusion now."

"What position?" Castle asks, his voice suddenly hoarse, as he now has a name and face of the person who casually took away his livelihood.

"Press Secretary," Veronica replies.

It fits. Castle knows Wallace well, knows how adept and successful the man was handling PR for Black Pawn for over a decade. It follows that he would want to do something different, and that his skills would be put to good use in a political capacity.

"Okay – suppose we follow you down this hole," Kate remarks, drawing both Rick and Veronica's attention back to her. "That doesn't explain why Bracken would want Rick out. He's got an election to win. Why would he care? I'm the one he has a hard-on for," she says, immediately regretting the words as she notices the smirk on Irena's face. She quickly pushes on.

"Why isn't he gunning for me?" Kate asks.

"He _is_ , Kate," Alexis Castle says, entering the room. She's been listening from behind the bedroom door, and more, she has been watching the alluring visitor closely. She senses no menace or danger from the woman.

"Attacking Dad . . . hurting Dad hurts you," the young woman explains. "And more – it keeps you preoccupied, busy protecting Dad. Which means you aren't paying attention to what he is doing."

"When did you get so smart?" Castle asks, a small grin on his face. Veronica nods her head subtly, taking in the young woman.

"Better question," Alexis counters. "Who exactly are you?" she asks, eyeing the woman next to Kate.

"No one you need to know," her father replies a bit too quickly.

"My name is Veronica Walker," Lady Irena answers. "I'm an attorney here in the city."

Alexis nods, and grabs a handful of now day-old grapes from the small table in the breakfast area before sitting on the arm of the chair occupied by her father. She pops a grape into her mouth.

"So why do I get the impression that you are more than an attorney?" Alexis asks.

"I like her," Veronica muses aloud with a smile of admiration.

"Don't!" both Castle and Kate say, simultaneously, drawing a chuckle from their visitor, as well as the younger Castle.

"Anyway, back to the task at hand," Irena suddenly remarks, focusing back on Castle and his wife. "Wallace was in a position to influence sponsors. To infer that you were going to be dropped. That's what the emails insinuated, referring to phone conversations they had conducted. And Gina confirmed that Wallace eventually showed himself to be the one pushing for your ouster."

Castle takes this information in with a lot more of a calm demeanor than Kate would have predicted. These were people Castle worked with for years and years. People who he had helped make wealthy. People who betrayed him in a heartbeat.

"Look, I appreciate this – I really do," Castle tells Veronica. "But why tell me this? It's not like I can do anything about it. It's not like I can – or even _want_ – to go back there, and –"

"There is much happening here, Mr. Castle," she interrupts. "I have been in this city long enough, learned enough of life here to know that there is more happening than just a mystery author being released. I don't know what it is – but perhaps you do. And now a good friend of mine has been pulled into this show, because of her job."

"So . . . what do you suggest?" Kate asks. "Surely you didn't come here just to espouse a few theories."

"Of course not," Veronica replies, amused at the detective. She reaches into her purse and pulls out an envelope. "You will need this," she says, standing as she drops the envelope onto the table that separates her from Castle.

"As I said . . . something is happening," she continues, now walking toward the door. "And I suspect that this might be the venue where it all comes to a head."

She opens the door, letting herself out as she turns back.

"Good luck to you both," she tells them, then adds with a smile, "It was good to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Castle. Perhaps you will come visit me sometime. And not on a police case," she chuckles, then shuts the door behind her before either can say another word.

 _ **Wednesday - October 29, 2014, the same night, 10:40 p.m. In a large Cathedral in the City**_

Jackson Hunt sits next to Danny Moreno in the back pew of the cathedral, taking in the stained glass windows that surround both men. He gazes at the large crucifix at the front of the church, and absent-mindedly taps his chest accordingly.

Moreno is his new informant, recruited roughly five months earlier during the tail end of his siege on the city, searching for his son. At that time, Moreno was a rising star in the Puerto Rican drug family – and the death of a few of his 'family brothers' at the hands of the man sitting next to him accelerated his elevation through the suddenly thinned ranks of leadership. He is here only because this evening's companion decided to spare him those many months ago.

Now third in command to the top man – Rico Peraza – Danny provides information to Jackson Hunt whenever asked. Hunt knows that the CIA depends on knowledge of – and occasionally gained from – the crime families in New York. Moreno now provides him with the invisible edge he needs on this front.

"So tell me, what's happening here, Danny?" Hunt asks him, looking forward toward the front of the church.

"Bracken is gunning for your son," Moreno whispers, glancing around. He knows he was not followed, and even if he was, he has chosen a place that he routinely inhabits on a weekly basis.

"Why?" Hunt asks. He has ideas, but needs to hear them from the man next to him.

"It's killing two birds with one stone, man," Danny replies. "Bracken doesn't give a shit about Richard Castle – no disrespect intended," he quickly adds.

"None taken," Hunt offers. "Continue."

"Hurting Castle hurts his wife – and that's what Bracken cares about. And second, gunning for Castle brings _you_ out into the open. She's using Castle to get to _you_ , man. She wants you in the worst way."

"She?" Hunt asks, a bit surprised.

"Bracken's wife," Danny replies, then smiles weakly. "No one is afraid of the governor . . ."

"That's getting ahead of ourselves, don't you think?" Hunt asks.

"Nah, man, he's already won this thing," Danny answers. "But he's not the player. _She's_ the player. She speaks, and things happen. And she wants the detective dead, and doesn't mind the writer getting caught in the cross-fire. I kind of think she digs the idea of him being like . . . collateral damage. But she knows she has to deal with _you_ first."

And there it is.

For a moment, Hunt is confused. Sure, he's heard – and known – that the wife was actually the ruthless edge behind New York's future power duo. But how in the world does Elizabeth Bracken even know about Jackson Hunt? He's a shadow in the world of shadows.

" _Very few people even know about me,"_ he thinks to himself, and then quickly nods his head in understanding.

Markov.

"Has she mentioned anything about resources at her disposal, Danny?" he asks the man. No need alerting his informant of what he knows.

"Not really per se," Danny replies, but quickly adds, eager to keep his new silent master happy. "But it is common knowledge that she has two big guns at her beck and call. And by big guns, I mean _big guns._ People like you. Dangerous people. Private assassins."

"Do tell," Hunt replies cryptically, allowing a bit of his own assassin persona to slip through – just to remind his young friend exactly who it is he is talking to. It works immediately.

"One is Silent Benny," the younger man instantly offers up. "Well known around here, and greatly feared, for good reason. Guy never talks – can't talk, rather – but that's not the only thing. Not only is he silent with words, but with everything, man. He is like a jungle cat – you don't see him coming, you don't hear him coming. Not until it is too late."

Yeah, he has heard about Silent Benny. Formidable foe. Not good news. He files this away, mentally.

"And _the_ other?" Hunt asks.

"Now that I don't know, I swear, man," Danny replies. "No one knows her. Alive that is. All we know is that she is a woman. I couldn't tell you one . . . damn . . . thing . . . about her," he tells him, emphasizing each word with a stuttered, halting cadence.

"She is a damn shadow," Danny continues, his voice showing a bit of awe. "Silent Benny – he's quiet as a mouse. But _this chica_ , man, she is a ghost. I don't think anyone alive – except the Brackens – even knows who she is, or what she looks like. But everyone walks with care when she's been released."

" _Okay, that plays,"_ Hunt thinks to himself, still staring forward as he stands to leave. He's gotten what he came for.

"Good talking with you, Danny," he tells the man, leaving an envelope next to Danny. He slowly makes his way down the pew and out into the aisle. A minute later, he is into the cool night, hailing a cab as the man back in the chapel counts his newly-earned green bills, nodding his head, smiling.

Twenty minutes later, Hunt is back in his hotel room, a non-descript three-story establishment that is considerably lower on the elegance chain than the one currently being rented - by the night - by his son. He takes off his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster, which he quickly discards. He flops back onto the old couch, feeling the springs bounce as he sinks deep into the cushions. He reaches down to remove the ankle holster, and then lays his head back on the top of the sofa.

"Yeah, that plays," he repeats, this time out loud. He knows she is Russian, and he knows she is here on assignment. What he has never figured out is _why Bracken?_

"Why is she attached to you, Senator?" he asks out loud, glancing down at the image of the ex-Senator oh his phone, a snapshot he had taken a week ago.

"There's nothing in your background to suggest any type of leaning or inclination toward the Russians," he muses aloud. And he's right. There's nothing – no suggestion of infiltration or influence – from the Russians into Bracken's camp, and Hunt himself has done the searching. But still, nevertheless, she is here – the top assassin for Putin's new world – and she works for Bracken.

"There's no ties, no suggestions of coercion, nothing," he repeats aloud, wondering exactly what the Russians might have on Bracken that would make him useful to them – and why they have yet to play their hand.

Regardless, now he knows that he has two problems to deal with. As if Elena Markov wasn't enough, now he has to worry about a mute assassin, to boot. He shakes his head, as if to clear it, then glances over at the television monitor. He'd left the television on when he left – always wanting any visitor to think he is in. He picks up the local news feed, talking about Bracken's scheduled speech two nights from now at the Marriott in Times Square. The mayor is throwing his annual Halloween Ball and Gala – a costume affair that Weldon loves and invites the city's power brokers to attend for an evening of fun and charity. And not one to miss an opportunity, Weldon has invited Bracken. Given his friendship with Castle, and recent events - it is an interesting move.

The scene switches to footage taken earlier this evening of the ex-Senator, speaking after this afternoon's explosion. Leave it to the future governor to put on the brave face, and use today's explosion to his advantage.

"Time to lay a few traps of my own, now," Hunt muses aloud, knowing that Mayor Weldon's costume shindig will give him the cover he will need.

"It will give her the same luxury, though," he admits to himself. He shrugs his shoulders, having known for years that eventually – it would come down to this. To her.

He glances down at his phone, and punches in numbers. Seconds later the phone rings. Twice. A third time before he is rewarded.

"This is Captain Victoria Gates," she answers, glancing at her watch and her husband who has just joined her in bed.

"Detective Beckett is in trouble," he says quickly. "Two assassins – one a Russian woman, another a local job – goes by the name of Silent Benny. Get the word to her, Captain. And have her call this number."

He gives Captain Gates the number to a burner phone, and then immediately hangs up, not leaving the captain a second to respond. He doesn't need the call traced – if she can do that from her home, he doesn't know. All he wants to do is to make sure that Kate and Rick get the word – but he also needs to know exactly where the captain's real allegiances lie.

He reaches down into his bag next to the sofa and pulls out the burner phone, and turns it on and plugs it into the wall. He glances over at the bed and shakes his head.

"No thanks," he says aloud with smile, and lays sideways along the length of the sofa, and is asleep in seconds.


	14. Chapter 14

**Triumphant: Chapter 14**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Wednesday - October 29, 2014, 11:32 p.m., at a non-descript hotel in New York City**_

The ringing from the burner phone startles Jackson Hunt out of his self-imposed combat sleep. He glances quickly at his watch, instantly fully awake and refreshed. It is 11:32 in the evening. He smiles, knowing that it's been less than twenty minutes since he spoke with Gates and put himself to sleep.

The phone rings another two times before he answers.

"Hello Kate," he smiles into the phone, as he walks toward the small kitchenette, in search of a water bottle.

"Jackson," she replies, her phone on speakerphone so that Castle can listen in as well.

"Rick is here also," she tells him.

"Good, good, it's better to talk with both of you at the same time rather than have you transpose this for him later, Kate," he tells her.

In truth, he is quite relieved to hear from Kate Beckett, as he had idly wondered whether her captain could truly be trusted. He has learned the hard way – the personally expensive way – that everyone should be suspected.

Even his son. Or his new bride. Everyone.

Trust is earned. It is a lesson learned, and never lost on the Langley man. Now he feels better about the role in which he plans for Gates and her team to play in the next couple of evenings.

"I'm curious, Detective," he begins, "and please humor me here. It's important. What exactly did Captain Gates tell you?"

"She told me that someone needs to learn proper manners for calling in the middle of the night, for starters," Kate chuckles into the phone, getting a grin from both Castle and his father.

"Guilty as charged," Hunt replies affably. "What else?"

"She mentioned that I was in danger," Kate begins.

" _There's a newsflash,"_ Castle mutters under his breath, sarcasm dripping. It's not a slight against his wife – only frustration with a life that seems to be spinning out of control. His. And hers, to be honest. He can feel the past five or six months weighing heavily, weighing him down.

"She also mentioned," she continues, playfully brushing Castle's arm in response, "that there are two assassins after me. A Russian woman, whom I assume is Elena Markov. And Silent Benny, for crying out loud."

She laughs at the notion of New York's premier assassin from the crime families actually making a play for a well-known and highly visible police officer.

"It's not like Benny to go after cops like this."

"Actually, the truth of the matter is that these two whack-jobs are after you _and_ me, Kate. Both of us," Hunt replies. "The whole plan is to kill you – and use Rick to draw me out so they can get me as well."

The news isn't a surprise, as she and Rick have already figured out that it was Hunt, not her husband or herself, that were the targets at the police station a couple of days ago. However, the question of 'Why Hunt' is the one still on her mind.

"I'm glad Gates called you, and told you what she was supposed to," he gives her in an off-hand manner, changing the subject. "It means I can trust her, and I'm going to need help from New York's finest to pull this off."

"I trust her implicitly," Kate counters, defensively.

"You trusted her predecessor just as implicitly – and where did that get you?" he asks, no malice intended. "It got you a bullet in the chest, Kate. Don't be stupid. You're too smart to be stupid."

"That's a little harsh, don't you think, Dad?" Castle remarks, rushing to her defense.

"A lot of what is happening right now is a little harsh, son," Hunt replies, then switching gears back to his plan.

"I've got a few things brewing, and I promise you – this is all going to come to a head in the next couple of days, next couple of evenings. I just need to know that I can trust all of the parties involved to do their part. You and Kate, I am not worried about," he tells his son – which is the truth.

"Her captain . . . your daughter . . . those are my question marks," he continues.

"My daug – hold on a second! What does Alexis have to do with this?" Castle asks, suddenly less excited about whatever new theory or idea his father has concocted.

"All in due time, Richard," Hunt tells him. "But first, what else have you and Kate learned since I saw you last?"

"Well, we've seen Elena on surveillance videos," Kate begins.

"As have I," Hunt concurs. "Let's hope she stays with the same disguise."

"Likelihood of that?" Kate asks.

"Actually pretty decent," Hunt acknowledges. She has a number of different looks, but for whatever reason, she picks a look and stays with it throughout a campaign."

"Why on earth would she do that?" Castle wonders aloud.

"Because she can," Hunt answers quickly. "She is one highly confident person. I hope to be able to use that against her." Jackson Hunt knows it is part of her personality – she has that feeling of invincibility. She does things just to make it a little more interesting.

"We also found out why Castle was let go from Black Pawn," Kate tells him, moving on. "Turns out one of his long-time supporters has opted for a more upward career path with our likely new governor."

"Do tell," Jackson remarks, rubbing his chin. "Who is it?"

"Frank Wallace," Castle replies. "It appears he has been offered the role of Press Secretary."

"Okay, that's surprising. I would have thought the Senator would have pulled someone he has already worked with in the Senate, from his old staff," Hunt muses aloud. "That seems far more logical."

"Unless Bracken has a past relationship with Wallace that we don't know about," Kate adds. "Which it appears likely that he does, since he has offered him this position and Frank – again apparently – opted to accept, knowing the baggage Bracken brings."

"What do you mean, baggage?" Hunt asks. Again, he knows. He just needs to hear all sides.

"He's an ex-Senator, kicked out because of his jail time," Kate explains. "We know this."

"We also know that the Senate very much wanted him back, once he was . . . exonerated," Castle continues, careful with his words.

"Some in the Senate wanted him back," Hunt nods, warming to Kate's thinking. "But not everyone." Hunt, too, has heard rumblings that some on Capitol Hill felt that the ambitious Senator – guilty or not – got the comeuppance he deserved.

"It makes sense that he would reach back for someone he already knows," Hunt says, thinking out loud.

"And the fact that selecting Frank also allows him to hurt Rick?" Kate asks. "Coincidence?"

"What do _you_ think?" Hunt replies, a bit caustically.

"Not likely," Kate agrees.

"So Bracken makes the offer – along with a request," Hunt thinks out loud. "The job is yours, just get rid of Castle."

"Which only further puts Rick in a hard state of mind," Kate adds.

"Which only exasperates things with all of the innuendo flying in the press about you and I," Rick remarks.

The three are quiet for a few seconds before Hunt continues.

"I can use this," he decides out loud. " _We_ can use this. Any little thing has the potential to throw the Bracken's off their game – just a bit."

"What do you mean?" Kate asks.

"Rick," Hunt replies, talking specifically to his son. "Call him. Better yet, go to him. Go visit him. Pay him a visit in person."

"What? Who? Bracken?" Castle asks, incredulously.

"No," his father corrects. "Wallace. Go visit Frank Wallace in person. At his home. Tell him what you know. You're a writer – you will find the right words."

"Why would we do that?" Kate asks.

"Don't we want to keep this to ourselves for now?" his son asks as Kate is speaking.

"First of all, it is going to come out eventually," Hunt tells him. "It is better for us if we choose when and where and how that happens. It puts them off, just enough. Second," Hunt continues, "it tells Wallace that the seas that he has chosen to sail might not be as safe and calm as he thinks. That's why you visit him at his home, not at Black Pawn."

"At his house?" Rick parrots, still wrapping his mind around his father's thinking.

"Yes, at his home. At the office, Rick, this is nothing more than a meeting that he has every day. He is in control there," Hunt replies, explaining his thinking. "At his home? It is no longer a meeting. It is a _message_. One he – in turn – will deliver to Bracken, if you are right about all of this."

"And what do you want Bracken to do?" Kate asks.

"I want him to be nervous, Kate," Hunt remarks darkly – with an equally menacing smile now forming on his lips. Yeah, he wants the ex-Senator to be nervous. Nervous people become predictable. Nervous people make mistakes.

"Go to him, Rick," Hunts tells his son. "What time does he normally get to work?"

"Usually 7:45 or 8 in the morning, at the latest," Rick answers.

"Good," his father continues. "Go to his house in the morning. Get there before he leaves."

"That would be around six in the morning," Castle thinks aloud.

"Tell me, son," his father asks. "How would you react to a visit at your front door at six in the morning?" he chuckles.

 _ **Thursday, just past midnight - October 30, 2014, 12:02 a.m., at Elena Markov's flat in Boston**_

The strains of Puccini's Nessun Dorma cry out, bouncing off the living room walls, giving the darkened room an eerie, trancelike feel. In the middle of the room, dressed in an all-black leotard, and barefoot, stands Elena Markov.

The assassin's eyes are closed, and her lips pulled into a peaceful, beatific smile. She is fluid, as if operating underwater, or in zero gravity, performing one kata after another. The discipline keeps her whole, staying frosty and on edge – as she works through the movements with a long sword, and her favorite, short knife.

"Splendera!" she repeats with the lyrics to the song, opening her eyes briefly, as she gazes almost lovingly at the long weapon.

"Yes," she whispers. "You shine for me."

Quickly thrusting upward, she closes her eyes once more, as she visualizes a neck slice. Without pause or hesitation, she swings ninety degrees in a low crouch, simulating a leg slice. Just as quickly, she rises out of that stance, forming what can only be described as a horizontal Usain Bolt lightning pose – with the long sword in her bent arm, while her extended arm thrusts forward with the knife into a strike movement.

"Mama?" the small voice from the doorway beckons to her, suddenly pulling the assassin out of her temporary world. She smiles, dropping her arms to her side as young Anna – obviously awakened by the music - comes into the living room.

"Mama?" the little girl repeats. The precocious five year old smiles upwardly at her mother, extending her hands.

Elena returns the smile, genuinely, and carefully places the long sword into the small hands of her daughter. In a blur, the young girl's knees bend, legs spread, and she mimics the motion and pose she has just watched her mother perform, only this time with both of her smaller hands on the sword, her arms bent and pulled toward her chest.

"Excellent, little one," her mother praises, clapping, bringing a pleased smile to the youngster's face.

Elena has battled back and forth with the notion of teaching her young daughter the martial arts – more specifically – the deadly strikes. However, she also knows the world that she has birthed the beautiful young girl into – and knows that she will need every advantage possible.

But for now, it's late. The night is well into its chorus, and morning is still far away.

"Come, little one – let's go to bed," she tells the little girl. "Mama will join you."

The girl springs upward into her mother's arms, giggling, the long sword hanging behind them.

"I love you mama," little Anna gushes into her mother's ear, and for a moment, the older woman's eyes mist – ever so briefly – before she regains control. Always protective of her daughter, she rarely allows real emotion – other than a smile or laughter – to be seen by her young protégé. For the umpteenth time, she questions her own approach to raising the child, then brushes the thoughts away – thinking now about tomorrow evening – the mayor's ball – and her final movement.


	15. Chapter 15

**Triumphant: Chapter 15**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Thursday just after midnight - October 30, 2014, 12:37 a.m., at Castle's hotel in Manhattan**_

Richard Castle sits on the bed, cross-legged in his pajama bottoms, and no shirt. His hair is still damp from the shower as he glances up at his wife, who only now exits the elegant bathroom draped in a large, off-white bath towel that is wrapped around her body, while a second, much smaller towel adorns her head.

"There's a sight," he chuckles.

"Careful, I may take that the wrong way," she warns with a chuckle herself.

He smiles, patting the bed in the middle, inviting her to join him. She pulls back the covers, throwing off the smaller towel to the floor as she sits on her side of the bed.

"Wrong one," he smiles with a wiggle of the eyebrows. She smiles in return, her heart dancing. It has been months – literally – since she has seen this utterly playful side of her husband, and it is good to see. She glances down at the empty envelope between them, only now noticing the small paper in his hands.

"So what did she leave us?" she asks, referring to the parting gift from Lady Irena.

"An invitation," he replies with a smile, as he hands the paper to her. "Bob's annual Halloween bash. To be honest, I'd forgotten all about it."

"You _love_ that party," she muses aloud, reading the invitation. "Last year was . . ."

"Yeah," he replies, his smile broadening. "Last year was fun. I just realized we never got an invitation this year."

"Where would he have sent it?" Kate remarks, putting the invitation back into the envelope. "We've been off the radar, no address."

"True," he replies, nodding his head. "I'd say this is a clear sign from the universe that we should go," he chuckles.

"Can't say I disagree," she nods.

One of the last things Hunt had told them before hanging up less than half an hour ago was that the mayor's annual shindig had some interesting guests invited this year – including a certain ex-Senator and his wife. The news had stunned both the novelist and his wife.

" _I find that hard to believe," Kate had exclaimed to Hunt some twenty-five minutes ago. "Mayor Weldon knows what happened to Rick. He saw the videos. He was there at the preliminary hearing. He knows exactly what happened. Why on earth would he invite Bracken?" she had asked, confusion mixing with fury._

" _Who knows, Kate," Hunt had replied. "Weldon is a politician, and Bracken is on the brink of becoming the most powerful man in New York. It's simple survival."_

" _He's my friend," Castle had argued, almost whining in disbelief._

" _No, son," Jackson Hunt had corrected him. "He's the mayor of New York City."_

They had agreed that somehow, someway Rick and Kate needed to find their way into the costumed affair. And now Lady Irena has provided them that door. Castle idly wonders whether or not the dominatrix will be making an appearance there herself. It seems logical that if she can swing an invitation for the two of them, then she probably has one herself.

"My question is why would she think to get you and I invited," he wonders aloud to his wife next to him. "What exactly does she know that she didn't let on last night?"

"It does make you wonder," Kate agrees.

"It also makes me wonder who else will be there, Kate," he tells her, immediately bringing a frown to both of their faces.

"I'd have to think she would be there, too," Kate remarks, reaching across to hold her husband's hand. "Remember – Gates told me last night when she called that Ramona Vasquez had identified Markov at Bracken's speech yesterday afternoon. If she was there, she will probably be at the ball tomorrow night if the Brackens are going to be there."

"Dressed as what? A spy? An assassin?" he laughs reluctantly.

"Doesn't matter," Kate tells him. "We still don't know exactly what is going on – what 'this' is . . . but I have a feeling, babe, that it's all going to be coming to a head tomorrow night."

He licks his lips, taking a deep breath, staring down at the bedsheets.

"Not exactly trick or treat," he replies, finally.

"Depends on your definition," she smiles, as he turns his head, taking her in, the damp hair giving her even more of an alluring look.

"Of which word?" he asks.

Kate only smiles as she scoots off of the bed, allowing the large towel to drop away from her body. Before he can react, she bends and turns the lamp atop the nightstand out, throwing the room into darkness.

A few seconds later, she giggles in the blackness.

"Hey, stop . . . I have to leave in less than four hours," his voice speaks hoarsely.

'Really, Castle?!"

"Of course not really," he says indignantly, and her giggles become louder.

In the bedroom next to them in the large two-bedroom suite, Alexis Castle loudly flips herself over, now face-down into the mattress, pulling the pillow over her head, muttering incoherently.

 _ **Thursday morning - October 30, 2014, 5:49 a.m., at Franklin Wallace's home in White Plains, NY**_

There is a mist in the air, as Richard Castle watches the breath flow from his lips while he rings the doorbell at Franklin Wallace's front door. The trip to White Plains was easy this time of the morning, with no traffic to worry about. It turned out to be roughly forty-five minutes from his hotel to the Black Pawn man's suburban home.

"Maybe we woke him up," Kate muses half-heartedly, her arms folded in front of her chest against the morning chill.

"Doubtful," he smiles. "He's got a train to catch in less than twenty minutes. He's up, trust me."

Castle had decided to have Kate along with him. No, it wasn't part of Jackson Hunt's plan, but the two of them have decided that whatever happens – whatever goes down – both of them will face it together. After Rick's kidnapping, they aren't taking any chances.

She wears dark slacks, a black turtleneck sweater and a black bomber jacket . . . and sunglasses. Yeah, at six in the morning, just to add to the intrigue and intimidation factor.

The door finally opens a few seconds after Castle rings the doorbell for the third time – same as the previous two times – with four pushes in succession. He chuckles at the startled man, and the rush of emotions that float across his face.

The look of utter surprise that morphs into something more akin to terror on Franklin Wallace's face is something that will amuse Kate Beckett for the rest of her life – however long that may be.

"Hello Franklin," Castle greets his old colleague of sorts. "It's been a while. How are you this morning?"

Kate can only smile as Castle attempts to make the early morning surprise meeting appear as common as a pre-scheduled noon lunch. Immediately she is taken back to his . . . performance with the District Attorney days earlier, and finds herself once again wondering how much of that – and this – is really a performance, as opposed to a man who might have finally been pushed beyond his limits.

"I must say I'm disappointed," Castle continues, watching the man stand, mouth agape with incredulity at the couple in front of him. "It has come to my attention that you were very vocal, Franklin . . . very instrumental in my ouster from Black Pawn."

"Wha – What? I have no idea what you are talking –"

"Franklin, Franklin," Kate interrupts, shaking her head subtly. "It's early. I did not sleep much last night," she says, then quickly turns to Castle, pulling her sunglasses just an inch lower, so that she can see him over the top of the eyewear.

"Well, that was _your_ fault of course, darling," she tells Castle, giving him a slight, slow lick on his right ear before turning back to Wallace, continuing, her sunglasses now back in place. Thankfully she continues the conversation, as her husband's mind is temporarily rebooting.

"Nevertheless, Franklin," she continues, taking a step toward the man. Without thinking, he involuntarily takes a step backward, providing the duo with a pathway into the house. Kate uses this as an invitation to enter, with Castle right behind her.

"Nevertheless," she repeats, "I must insist that you stop playing games," she tells him, gently placing her hand along the side of the man's face. "We have places to be, and you have work to go to. Isn't that right, darling," she says, turning back to Castle who – mercifully – has regained his senses.

"Perhaps," Castle replies. "I personally have always thought that Frank here worked too hard, though," he tells her. "I've always been of the mindset that Frank needs some time off – some time away from work."

"Now wait – wait just a – hold on a minute," the now-frightened PR man stutters, stumbling back another step.

"Ah, come on Franklin," Kate smiles demurely. "We're just joshing with you."

"Castle suddenly steps forward, pushing Kate out of the way somewhat roughly with his shoulder.

"Joshing? Joshing?!" he asks.

Kate cannot keep the look of surprise off her face, and for a second, her lips are moving but no words escape.

"I don't particularly care for than name," he says, glancing at Kate.

"Seriously Castle?" she argues in a whispered tone, their sudden combative discussion completely disarming Franklin Wallace, as beads of perspiration now form atop his forehead.

"It's just a name," she counters.

"Just a name?" he repeats questioningly, eyebrows raised. He stares at her for a couple of seconds.

"Kyra," he whispers finally, and yeah, it has the expected reaction. Kate's eyes darken momentarily, her lips pursed.

"Point taken," she finally tells him, as they eye one another. Suddenly, Castle turns his attention back to a now visibly-shaking Wallace.

"I take it somewhat personally when someone orchestrates the elimination of my livelihood," he tells the man. "Understand this, _Mr._ Wallace," he says with emphasis on the title. "This will be over soon enough. Sooner than you think. I wouldn't print those new business cards just yet."

Kate uses the opportunity to step back into the space between the two men, brushing both men backward, roughly.

"When that happens, Mr. Wallace," she begins, as she gently grabs her husband's arm, "trust me, you will see Richard again."

She pulls him gently by the arm, as they step away from the frightened PR man, taking three long steps back to the front door, before she turns back to face the man.

"But I promise you, Mr. Wallace – you won't see _me_ coming."

The door shuts, and a very relieved yet afraid Franklin Wallace immediately runs back to the kitchen counter, picking up his cell phone and punching in a number. He rubs rapidly-building sweat away from his forehead with his bare hand, cursing into the mobile phone as he listens to the obligatory ringing.

"Come on you bastard!" he hisses under his breath, anger now rising and combating the fear he feels. "Answer the damn phone!"

Outside, a dark SUV is slowly pulling away from the curbside, with a surprisingly quiet couple inside. They make it half a mile away from the house before he speaks.

"I'm sorry," he tells her. "I just don't like that name."

"I can tell," she tells him. "But it was a word, not a name."

"I know babe," he replies, taking one hand off the steering wheel to place it atop her hand. "I know. I just don't like the name, the word. As a noun, or a verb."

"I will keep that in mind," she says softly, smiling, making a mental note to delete the word from her vocabulary in the future. Her smile broadens, realizing that in seven years, she has never – until this moment – seen jealousy manifest itself so . . . physically and aggressively with the novelist. Her mind suddenly revisits the small cabin in the woods, deep into one of the Tangier Islands. The writing reforms on the wall, a series of love letters from a man who thought he would never see the love of his life again.

Since that time, the man next to her has taken lives to obtain his freedom, has survived floating overnight in the deep waters of Chesapeake Bay, has hidden himself from society, and most of all, finally put a ceremony with the ring he had placed on her finger.

Yeah, a little jealousy . . . she kind of likes it. Her calm mood shatters just as quickly.

"Think he called him?" she asks, pulling her mind back to the task at hand.

"Oh yeah," Castle remarks, offering her a glance. "I think things are well in motion now."

"Good," she comments.

They are quiet for another half mile, still holding hands.

"So, where to now?" she asks. The smile on his face brightens the car as the sun rises to their left.

"We're going costume shopping" he half chuckles, his excitement now bubbling over.


	16. Chapter 16

**Triumphant: Chapter 16**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Thursday morning - October 30, 2014, 6:10 a.m., at William Bracken's Residence in New York**_

"What do you mean he threatened you?!" the ex-Senator bellows in surprise. His volume startles his wife awake, who lays next to him. The phone ringing this early in the morning, or late at night, is never a good thing. The first rings started bringing her out of her slumber. His yelling does the rest.

"What's not to understand, Bill?" a very flustered and increasingly angry Franklin Wallace retorts loudly. "He showed up here and –"

"At your house?!" Bracken exclaims.

"What are you not getting, dammit!" Wallace replies, his voice rising even more. "Yes, here at my house. It's barely six in the morning," he adds, now lowering his voice to a whisper so as not to wake his family. "Where the hell else would I be at this time of the morning?"

"Okay, okay, just hold on here for a second," Bracken begins, but the Black Pawn PR man cuts him off.

"Hold on nothing, Bill!" Wallace hisses into the phone. "In case you have forgotten, people are dying in this city over this guy. And now he shows up here?! At my house!? With not so veiled threats?! I've known the damn man for over a decade, Bill, over ten years! And do you know how many times he has been to my house in all that time?"

"I'm guessing never," comes the reply from the ex-Senator.

"You're fucking right, never!" Wallace screams, again raising his voice and immediately regretting the decision, as he glances over his shoulder back toward the stairs and the upstairs landing.

"I have my wife, I have my kids here," Wallace continues, trying desperately to get control of his emotions, his fear, his voice. "He's never been here. _Ever_. And the first time in over ten years he decides to show up, and he and that damn detective threaten me, force their way in and –"

"Beckett was there, too?" Bracken asks, incredulous.

"Of course she was here," Wallace replies angrily. "And scarier than anything you've led _any_ of us to believe, too!"

Bracken is quiet for a few seconds, as he considers this news. On one hand – yeah, it makes sense that she would be there. They're together now. For real. They're in this together. On the other hand . . . she's still a cop. And that's what he has been counting on. She's a cop. There is a protocol. It's been bred inside her. There are rules. She wouldn't just indiscriminately ignore procedure . . .

"Okay, Franklin, just hold the phone for a second," Bracken finally remarks. "I'm sure this was just a big act she put on for you in order to –"

"That was no act, _Senator_ ," Wallace interrupts, and he unintentionally places a bit of derision-laced emphasis on the title. "I know an act when I see one. I _play_ acting, dammit. That's what I do. I know an act. That was no act. Those two are on edge, and I mean right-at-the-cliff on edge."

"Then I can use that," Bracken quickly tells the man, considering this information as well. "Now calm down, Franklin! They're gone. Don't panic. Keep your eyes on the prize! As long as we keep our heads, this all will work out – and you will be a very influential man in this state."

He hangs up the call, leaving the Black Pawn PR executive with a dumbfounded look, staring down at his now-silent mobile phone. He raises the small device as if to toss it across the room, but catches himself. He places the phone back on the counter, and then grabs the counter with both hands, to sturdy himself, his eyes closed, his mind seething.

"Bastard is going to get us all killed," he muses aloud to himself, then glances back at the stairs, making sure he is still alone. Satisfied, he raises his head toward the ceiling, taking in a deep breath. He grabs the phone, and walks toward the side door leading into the garage, grabbing his coat from the hook at the door, and opens it and departs from the house. A minute later, still quiet and fuming, he is in the car pulling out of the driveway, his fingers punching in a contact.

"He will get us all killed," he repeats aloud again, listening to the phone begin to ring on the other end.

 _ **Thursday morning - October 30, 2014, 7:15 a.m., at a small 24-hour breakfast diner in the city**_

The noisy bustle from the kitchen is growing now, as more people file in and find their seats at tables in the small but popular local diner. Two tables across from the kitchen sits Jackson Hunt. He sits away from the windows, and at a vantage point that gives him clear viewing access across the store to anyone entering the restaurant, as well as a clear physical access through the kitchen if he needs to make a quick exit.

He sets the glass of orange juice back down on the table, now half-filled, and picks up the fork and dives back into the scrambled eggs on the plate with his right hand, while scribbling aimlessly on the piece of paper next to the plate with his left. The eggs are good here, as good as he remembered. He stares at the piece of paper, once again reflecting on last night's late-night conversation with his son and the detective.

His wife.

Hunt smiles genuinely, content for once with the happiness that he senses his son has finally found. And, it appears that he has finally grown up. Hunt idly wonders if the horrific two weeks spent in isolation and captivity down in the Tangier Islands wasn't – in fact – the best thing ever to happen to Richard Castle. He knows, first-hand, the ultimate terror and ultimate benefits of a life forged in the crucible, under great physical and mental duress. Even in just two short weeks.

" _They weren't that short for him, I'm sure,"_ he thinks to himself.

He dismisses the thought – one that has occurred to him frequently during these past few months, and returns his focus to the conversation from last night. As it turned out, the best – most interesting – portion of the talk with Castle and Kate – which went just past midnight – occurred toward the end. He had given them information about Mayor Weldon's ball tomorrow night, and he could almost feel their wheels turning as they considered ways they might be able to attend – which he has told them is a necessity for his plan.

" _I don't want to be there alone," he had told them. "Not for this one, not with so many there who could be enemies."_

But the information they had shared with him – unknown to them – was one of the more surprising gifts from the universe the CIA man has ever experienced – and one he would never have expected

When Kate and Rick had – using Alexis in disguise– bugged the ex-Senator's lunch table yesterday and listened in on the Bracken's conversation, they were privy to interesting information for certain – but nothing really new. Even Bracken making a comment that he would like to enter the first three months of his term without the distraction of Kate Beckett wasn't really news to the trio. Dangerous, yes. But not new, and certainly not admissible, given the means of collecting that knowledge.

But no, the most important piece of information, the real gift, came when – according to Kate – Mrs. Bracken left the table for the ladies room. Then, Bracken had made a phone call – no, it wasn't a phone call – rather, he had sent at text message to someone, but fortunately, the future governor had spoken the words he typed out loud, as he typed.

" _When can I see Anna?"_

For Richard Castle and his wife, this was a mystery for sure – one so big, so massive, where they really didn't know where to start. Their focus was on the identity of the girl. Who is Anna?

For Jackson Hunt?

It pointed to one single, fairly obvious conclusion.

The man had a daughter, from an affair. Okay, that was easy to decipher. Kate and Richard had figured that much out already. But that wasn't the question.

The question was – why would he not be able to see her?

Sure, the ex-Senator would keep the existence of a daughter born of another woman a secret from his wife, Elizabeth Bracken. Hell, Bracken's wife would probably have cut his stones off and had them for breakfast if she ever found out. So no, keeping this a secret is the obvious option.

But there is the rub.

These things never stay a secret. _Never._ They always come out, eventually. They always come to the surface. Someone always finds out.

"It all comes out in the wash," he whispers to himself, as he scribbles on the piece of paper that has three names and a question mark on it.

William Bracken.

Elizabeth Bracken.

Anna

And a question mark.

His mind is slowly processing all of this as he scribbles, making doodle marks on the page. He doesn't want to rush through this, and idle scribbling has become a means of calming his thoughts, slowing his breathing, focusing . . .

No, these things never stay a secret. And all too often, it is the woman herself – the mother in question, herself – who ultimately allows the dangerous leak, allows a slip of the tongue somewhere to hint to others the identity of the child's father.

All too often, the woman tires of being second fiddle, the mistress in the shadows, not living in the big house, not walking on the big stage with the lights flashing. All too often, the woman tires of the generous but paling-in-comparison stipend the man throws her way for her silence – and occasional dalliance. Soon, the jewelry she can't wear in public isn't enough. Seeing him on television getting in and out of limos, with his wife on his arm – it becomes too much.

But that's not what is happening here.

Jackson Hunt has never heard anything – not even a whisper, not a peep – about any indiscretions from the ex-Senator on the marriage front. Not a one. For all of his warts, for all of his faults – of which there are many – infidelity has never even reared its head as a hint or a rumor.

Arrogant, yes.

Brutal, absolutely.

Dangerous, without a doubt.

Adulterer?

No – not even a whisper. The one thing everyone – on both sides of the William Bracken ledger – has always agreed upon is that the man loves his wife to death. And lucky for him that he does, because very few people doubt the quick and fatal response that would come from his wife were it any other way.

No, Bracken's devotion to his wife is legendary – admired by both sides of the political spectrum. It is the one area no one even bothers to consider anymore. No attempts at smear tactics, no attempts to get under his skin using infidelity. It's always been off the table.

So yeah, the fact that neither he, nor any of his contacts at Langley, nor anyone in the press have ever uttered a hint about an indiscretion – much less a child – is telling given that it appears that he does – in fact – have a child out of wedlock. Then it hits him.

It means that whomever he had this affair with, whoever Anna's mother is – she is a woman to be reckoned with, a woman not to be taken lightly.

A woman who knows the game.

A woman who would understand the danger presented to the Senator, who would . . .

Who would . . .

His eyes widen in disbelief, as he drops the pen onto the table and leans back, whistling softly to himself.

" _No way!"_ he thinks, shaking his head as he watches the waitress arrive with his second glass of orange juice, before diving back into his thoughts.

A woman who would understand the danger presented to the Senator, yeah, but would also consider that to be secondary to the danger presented to herself!

Or her child!

A woman who would never even consider leaking the information, because it damages her and her child above all else.

A woman who would never even consider blackmailing the father for more money, for more fame, for more visibility, for more power, for more of the good life . . . because her own life demands that she remain in the shadows – unknown and unseen.

"My God," he whispers aloud, as he begins to write the letters on the small piece of paper next to the question mark, forming a name.

 _Markov._

Yeah, it fits, he thinks to himself. And it explains why the woman would be so beholden to the Senator.

She has his child.

So yeah, she will protect him. Brutally. And she will protect her child – her daughter, even more so. At any and all cost. Remaining in the shadows isn't a negative stigma for Elena Markov. It is a prerequisite for her mission from the homeland, whatever that mission is. And somehow that mission found the assassin in the Senator's bed.

And she decided to have his child!

He picks up the phone, and starts dialing his son's number from memory, when he suddenly stops. For a few seconds he stares at the phone as if it were some alien object, before finally putting the device back down next to his plate. He grabs the glass of orange juice, and takes a long swallow.

"No, have to think this through," he tells himself, as he starts thinking out loud.

" _I tell Rick who the mother is, and he tells Kate,"_ he thinks. _"But this will only throw Kate off her game. And that's unacceptable. I can't have her seeing Markov as anything but a killer, an assassin."_

He takes another long swallow, draining the glass and immediately motioning toward the waitress, asking for another. That done, he grabs a slice of bacon and takes a bite, then adds some eggs before swallowing, and returning to his thoughts.

" _I can't allow Kate to see her as a mother,"_ his thoughts continue, now speeding up despite his best intentions. _"She will hesitate when the moment of truth arrives, just enough to get herself killed."_

He knows the detective – he knows her history, and her demons. He knows that she will – just for an instant – consider a child who is losing a mother – something that is buried way too deep inside Kate Beckett for her not to think about it – for her not to hesitate. And he knows without a doubt that this single moment, that brief second of hesitation will kill her.

"Or it will kill my son," he whispers aloud, to himself.

So no – he doesn't want to keep this type of secret from his son, at such an important juncture. But he has no choice. He keeps this information to himself, as he begins scribbling again – now adjusting his plans with this new knowledge.


	17. Chapter 17

**Triumphant: Chapter 17**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Thursday morning - October 30, 2014, 8:07 a.m., at William Bracken's Residence in New York**_

"You are sure that he will be there?" ex-Senator William Bracken asks aloud, to both his wife sitting next to him, and to the beautiful woman in black who sits across the table from them.

They are seated around a table-top covered in blueprints for the hotel where tomorrow evening's planned . . . festivities . . . will be in full swing. No leaf is being left unturned – both in terms of personnel as well as logistics. Bracken's concern is that all of this will be for naught, all of the months of planning, the well-executed scheme concocted by the beautiful Russian sitting across from him. He's been supremely confident until this morning's disruptive phone call from Franklin Wallace.

"They all will be there, Will," his wife intones, almost rolling her eyes. "Stop worrying."

"Stop worrying?" he bellows, surprising both women, showing a glimpse of the powerful politician he seldom allows either to see.

"In case you haven't noticed," he continues, eyeing both women with almost a hint of suspicion, " _He_ is the one not worried. Castle. He and the bitch detective. I thought the whole plan was to get them off their game."

"He _is_ off his game, Senator," Elena replies calmly, still using the old, familiar title – perhaps out of habit or respect. He isn't sure which. Regardless, it has the calming effect she intends.

"He is not used to being the aggressor," Elena continues. "He is not used to being the hunter. He is not used to being the one making threats, playing the intimidator. And make no mistake – he is _playing_ the intimidator. This is not who he _is_. My plan has worked perfectly. We have pulled him out of his element, out of his comfort zone. This aggressive behavior is unnatural and unfamiliar to him. It will be used against him. It is not who he truly is, and at the appropriate moment of truth – when all is at stake – he will hesitate, unsure of himself and the role he attempts to play."

"You seem confident of this," Elizabeth Bracken notes quietly. For the most part, she has been taking this conversation in, more an observer than anything else.

"Mr. Richard Castle is not the first subject I have turned against his natural tendencies," Elena remarks nonchalantly, without a care in the world as if dismissing a pesky insect. "Whether we make a coward brave, or a brave man a coward – either way – that man now plays a part that is unfamiliar to him. Once anyone – man or woman – has stepped away from who they truly are – they are already defeated.

Elizabeth Bracken nods her head, a small smile on her lips. She has to admire the woman's ability to set things in motion – with people often not even aware of the role they are being manipulated to play. Once again, she is thankful that the Russian is an ally.

Still, there is one sticking point she is not quite sure of.

"And what about the detective?" Elizabeth asks. Sure, this elaborate plan – that began with the kidnapping of Richard Castle all those months ago – has worked for the author. But the detective seems only more emboldened, and that definitely fits her mold.

"She," Elena answers with a bit of unconcerned admiration, "is another thing. Aggression suits her. It fits her. She wears it well. It is who she is."

"So, how has any of your plan worked with her, then?" Mrs. Bracken asks, continuing the train of thought.

"Because she will not be in hunt mode tomorrow evening," Markov replies. "Instead, she will be protecting her husband, and her step-daughter. You just make sure your other soldiers do their job," she tells the future First Lady of New York, the familiar menace now creeping back into her voice.

"The Castles are your target," she reminds Mrs. Bracken.

"He will be there," Mrs. Bracken assures Elena. "They all will be there."

"You're sure?" her husband asks again.

"Irena should have invited them yesterday, or perhaps the day before," Elizabeth Bracken replies.

"And she, too, is unaware of what she is doing?" he asks, rubbing his temples nervously.

"Of course," Elizabeth replies. "She is just playing her role. She has no idea that she – like everyone else – is being manipulated." She turns to the assassin, and adds, "It is a good plan, yes?"

Elena nods her head, and then replies.

"Just remember - Castle is your target. His father is mine. That will be my singular focus tomorrow evening."

"And what should our focus be?" William Bracken asks. Elena Markov smiles darkly.

"Don't get killed."

 _ **Thursday morning - October 30, 2014, Less than an hour later at 9:02 a.m., in New York City**_

"Okay, everyone settle down, settle down," a loud voice commands, as eight men begin to find their seats in the small living room area of Silent Benny's den. The high-priced and highly-feared assassin for the New York crime families lives in a surprisingly modest apartment, given the income the man possesses. Oh it's nice, it has a good size to it, and it is on the higher floor of the building. But it is casually decorated, with no hint of ostentatious behavior or living.

The master assassin gazes around at the eight men in his crew – all handpicked, and all long-time associates – and smiles solemnly. Benny doesn't relish violence, which is a surprise to some. He has long known, however, that they simply don't understand the mission. It's always about the mission. It isn't fun, there is no joy in this. It is simply a job, and one he has learned to do far better than a human being ever should.

Indeed, it is this marked lack of emotion - the emptiness - that drives his continual success. The family leaders understand this. Most of the rank and file do not.

"So, who's our target, boss?" Sammy Molina asks.

"It's more a question of who _isn't_ a target," replies Eddie 'the Duke' Blake. Eddie is Silent Benny's second-in-command, and as such, he often does the answering for his mute boss.

"She wants carnage," Eddie smiles, as heads nod and lips around the room turn upward in a concert of sinister sneers. "She wants a slaughterhouse. Obviously, the Brackens will walk out of there alive, as will those who will be in his cabinet."

"As I understand it, they all will be in costume," Jimmy Alioto remarks. "How will we know who our marks are?"

"Yes, they will all be in costume," Eddie agrees. "But, so will we. And here is your key. Anyone in a Warner Brothers cartoon costume is off limits. Anyone else – and I do mean _anyone_ – they are all fair game. The more, the better. Just make sure that we get the Castles. All of them. The writer, the detective, the daughter. Clean sweep."

"Even the girl?" a voice from the end of sofa asks with surprise.

"Even the girl," Sammy nods. "But it cannot – under any circumstances – look like they were the targets. It has to look like indiscriminate violence – and they were simply casualties – in the wrong place at the wrong time."

All eyes are suddenly riveted to the large chair, where Silent Benny quickly raps his knuckles on the small table next to the chair. Their leader stands, spreading his arms and smiling at his crew. He begins making motions with his hands, speaking in sign language to the men gathered around him. Each of his crew has become adept at understanding sign language – a prerequisite of sorts for joining this small but elite force.

"And any police officer is fair game as well," he signs. "And there is one more thing," he continues with his hand motions, and glancing towards Eddie.

"Oh, that's right," Eddie nods as an afterthought, and chuckles, as he and Benny share a smile between the two of them, each knowing that the other is recalling – in vivid detail – the conversation with Mrs. Elizabeth Bracken less than half an hour ago.

. . . .

" _Benny, Eddie – it has to look authentic. I mean truly authentic. So wound my husband," Mrs. Bracken had told the two men over the phone. Both men had struggled to contain their surprise._

" _Nothing too serious," she had continued. "Perhaps a leg wound. A broken arm. Something – anything – but it has to look real. It will not look good if he comes out of the evening . . . unscathed."_

. . . .

Yeah, Elizabeth Bracken is a piece of work, willing to risk her own husband's health for their greater good. Benny silently wonders whether or not the state's next governor is fully aware of the ruthlessness of his chosen mate.

"Nothing deadly, nothing too serious – but she wants her husband wounded," Eddie tells the team. There is silence for a few seconds before Sammy Molina erupts into laughter. Slowly, the others join in nervously.

"Remind me never to cross that woman," Molina tells the gathered men, who all agree readily with nodded heads – including that of Silent Benny.

"If he comes out of this unhurt, she fears it may cause unnecessary questions," Eddie continues. "So he needs to suffer as well. No head shots, no chest shots. Keep it toward the extremities."

"What about his wife?" Michael Turico asks. "Surely she is off limits."

"What do you think?" Eddie replies, to a few more chuckles and nervous laughter around the room. "Do not include her in this in the equation. But guys – get me on this – outside of Mrs. Bracken, this has to look completely realistic. If we leave a roomful of dead people, but the arguably most-important person in the room walks out of there with his wife in hand, without a scratch – well, questions will be asked."

"And you know how she does not like questions being asked," Silent Benny signs to the room at large, receiving a series of quick, nodding heads as a response.

 _ **Thursday morning - October 30, 2014, 9:15 a.m., at William Bracken's Residence in New York**_

"You look ravishing," William Bracken tells his wife. She sits in their master bathroom, in front of the mirror, applying makeup. Elena Markov took her leave from the couple almost forty minutes ago, and the couple has since showered, and is preparing for late morning meetings with his campaign leadership team. Many of them will be there tomorrow evening at the mayor's gala. A few of them will not make it out alive. Their losses will be acceptable.

Elizabeth Bracken loves her husband. But their mutual goal is the White House. That type of objective has costs. That type of objective does not come without some type of collateral damage. The gubernatorial election is in just over a week, but it is nothing more than a stepping stone for the power couple. And right out of the shoot, they are going to need William Bracken to be a sympathetic figure, a survivor of the type of crime that will become the target of their focus for the next six years before the 2020 Presidential Elections. His coronation will still come – only four years later than originally targeted.

But for his inaugural term as the governor of New York, a wave of sympathy must accompany his first 100 days of office. There will be difficult legislation – unpopular legislation for this city – that he is going to put through. He is going to move them towards difficult change – difficult, that is, without a not-so-gentle nudge. That nudge comes tomorrow evening. That nudge will give him the sympathetic public swelling behind him that will carry him through the first three to four months of his term. It will carry the legislation that the two of them both champion.

It has been over a decade now, since those two airplanes tore through the two majestic buildings, tearing them down and pulling a city together in the process. Fear, carnage, a common enemy – those are the elements that always pull cities – and their people – together. Tomorrow night, they will give this city that fear and carnage once again. Tomorrow night, they will provide this city with a common enemy once more – and they will kill two birds with one stone. William Bracken will get the sympathetic wave he will need to carry him through these proposed changes – and the Brackens, together, will once and for all, get rid of the detective and the pesky writer.

"You're just being sweet, Will," she finally replies, gently applying eyeliner as she sits.

"And you know this to be typical behavior from me?" he half-asks in jest.

"True," she admits. The man – although an accomplished politician, able to drop compliment with a dazzling smile at any time – rarely uses his political wares at home. Here, he is his authentic self. Here, at home, his compliments are honest and true.

"I apologize, my sweets," she tells him, and she is completely sincere. She her head backward, and he obliges with a swift kiss to her forehead. She closes her eyes, enjoying the closeness, the proximity. It is over all-too quickly, as he withdraws back to the wall, observing her with a smile on his face.

For a brief instant, she considers telling him how tomorrow evening is going to physically impact him. After all, she loves the man. But she loves her ambition more. For Elizabeth Bracken, the destination has always taken precedence over the journey.

So she remains silent. After all, as she has told Silent Benny numerous times . . . this has to look authentic.


	18. Chapter 18

**Triumphant: Chapter 18**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Thursday afternoon - October 30, 2014, 4:02 p.m., at Benjamin Donnelly's Sci-Fi Workshop**_

"Well, well, tell me, Mr. Castle, to what do I owe this honor?" proprietor Benjamin Donnelly greets his guests with a smile of recognition. "It's been what? Last Christmas, if memory serves."

Richard Castle and his still-relatively new bride walk slowly throughout the dark, almost-cavern-like establishment, and Kate can't help but stifle a giggle as she sees how her husband's eyes light up at each revelation he sees sitting on a shelf, or along the walls. She also notes the timeline Donnelly has given.

"You've been here since our visit with the sci-fi case a couple of years ago?" she asks Castle.

"Yeah, Alexis and I came here to pick up a few of his more exceptionally cool blaster guns and lasers," he smirks, and she immediately realizes where some of the more realistic laser tag equipment she has seen he and his daughter play with has come from. She makes a mental note for items on a Christmas list. If they make it that far.

"We've been invited to Mayor Weldon's little Halloween extravaganza tomorrow evening," Castle remarks, replying to the original question, extending his hand to shake Donnelly's hand.

"Ah yes, the mayor's annual ball," Donnelly acknowledges with a firm handshake. "Exclusive little group," he continues, nodding his head in admiration. "How'd the two of you finagle that?"

"Good living," Castle replies, smiling himself. "I guess you've been pretty busy with requests for some of your finer paraphernalia for tomorrow?" he asks.

"Not as much as you would think . . . or I would have liked," Donnelly admits, glancing around the room for a second or two. "Anyway, what exactly are you looking for this time? Something to help with your little games with Alexis also, while you're here perhaps?"

"No, and Alexis won't be there tomorrow night," Castle tells the man, without going further into it. After talking with his father, and realizing what might be happening tomorrow night, there is no way he is allowing Alexis anywhere near this event. Ironically, were he to be privy to what the Brackens are actually planning, perhaps we would make the same decision for himself.

"We just need a couple of your better laser guns," Castle continues, glancing at Kate.

"What's your theme this time?" Donnelly asks. "Star Trek, Star Wars, Farscape, Buck Rogers, Nebula 9?" he continues, glancing at Kate with a smile with the last one.

"No, not Nebula 9 this time," she replies with a short laugh. "But who we are going as has to stay a secret, for now," she tells him cryptically.

As they have done everywhere they have gone, she and Castle had been in disguise when they picked up their costumes this afternoon. It is only because Castle has become close friends with the sci-fi shop's owner that they have taken their disguises off once they entered his establishment. Nevertheless, Kate keeps an eye toward the dark hallway where the entrance is located.

"Well, since you're here, and you're asking for blasters, I can only assume that you have chosen a sci-fi theme," Donnelly remarks, as he walks toward the far wall. "These two – I think – will work perfectly for you both."

He hands the two faux weapons to the couple, authentic looking silver beauties, bringing an even broader smile to Castle as he depresses the trigger, and watches the high-beam green laser kiss the wall next to them while an explosion of sound is released from the weapon.

"Oh yeah, this will do," he smiles gleefully, bringing a smile to the face of Kate Beckett. There was a time when such juvenile joy from the writer would have been annoying. But she's gotten used to the closet adolescent. Besides, any joy he finds now, after the past few months, is a welcome change.

"I thought you'd think so," Donnelly smiles with pride.

"We're in a bit of a hurry today," Castle says quickly, noticing Kate's nervous glances back toward the entrance. "Can we –"

"No worries. I'll put it on your account, Mr. Castle," Donnelly tells him, now drawing a genuine look of surprise from his bride.

"His account?" she asks with raised eyebrows, glancing from Castle to Donnelly and back again. Her husband replies with a typically sheepish grin and a shrug of the shoulders in surrender, as he quickly dons his wig and pulls his spectacles out of his coat pocket.

"We _are_ going to talk about this, you know," she tells him as she dons her disguise again as well, as both make their way toward the entrance.

 _ **Thursday afternoon - October 30, 2014, 5:20 p.m., at the Marriott Times Square in New York City**_

"Hey, make sure you hide all those wires, man," the large black man bellows across the room. "We don't want anyone tripping over anything, and you know how anal these uppity types get."

The supervisor – a Henry Archer - is watching over the preparations for the Broadway Ballroom here at the Marriott Marquis, in the heart of Times Square. Archer has actually met the mayor a few times over the past few years – always in preparation for Weldon's annual gala. The ex-military man now takes pride in the fact that the mayor has remembered him, and is continually impressed that – for this particular event – the mayor himself comes to check things out, instead of sending one of his lackeys. He glances around quickly, taking in the work being done here at the ballroom.

"I gotcha," the silver-haired electrician acknowledges, as he runs tape along the all, hiding the wire connecting the spotlights that have been brought in for tomorrow night's event. Jackson Hunt, in fact, is using this as an opportunity to make final preparations of his own. He's already planted two incendiary devices below the dual, double-wide escalators leading up and down from the sixth floor, where various ballrooms here at the hotel are connected across multiple floors. He's also planted two devices on the outside balcony terrace.

He knows that Weldon has invited close to fifteen hundred people for his gala, and the room holds roughly two thousand to twenty-five hundred at capacity. It's an exclusive event, with the most influential in the business world – retail, insurance, real estate, law firms, local government – along with the usual notables on the sporting and entertainment circuit. There will be a lot of important people, and people who think they are important in attendance.

Hunt smiles back at the supervisor, satisfied once again with his own disguise. He has learned – long ago – that a janitor, a plumber, an electrician – these people have access anywhere, anytime without a second glance from anyone. He continues to hide the wire, as instructed, glancing back at the two large spotlights where he has hidden additional charges, and nods with satisfaction.

No, he is not sure what is going to happen tomorrow night. He doesn't know the plans the Brackens have, or the plans that Elena Markov probably has of her own. All he knows is that he is not going to wait for them to make the first move. At the appropriate time, he is going to discharge his little toys, and then step back and watch.

There will be pandemonium, for certain. The escalators will be out. So there will be crowding at the elevators. He also has placed charges in the northeast and southeast stairwells, on either side of the stage. Those exits will be off-limits after his little firework display, which will ensure that everyone – the good guys, the bad guys, and those just there to have a good time – everyone will be running in the same direction. That will give him the vantage point he needs.

In the hysteria, anyone who is innocent is going to be in full flight mode, panic painted over their faces. The only thing on their minds will be 'get the hell out of here', and he will oblige them. He will let those go.

There will be some in attendance, however, who will not only be surprised by his pyrotechnics, but those people will _not_ be in full flight. They will be looking around, assessing the situation, making in-the-field changes to their plans, because their plans will have just been disrupted. Those will be his targets. He has no idea how many there will be. He strongly suspects Markov will be there, but he also expects some type of security force from Bracken. How large in anyone's guess. But he knows he needs to be prepared for anything. That's why having Beckett there is important. It's why having Gates there – and being able to trust her – is important. She will bring those she trusts as well. He assumes that the mayor will have some type of security in place.

The only known entity is Markov, and the only known facts are that someone – and it isn't him this time – has been running a violent campaign here in the city, and now – in the last days – it has gotten close to Bracken. Whether he was the intended party or not – and he is betting money that he was not – it is still an option that needs to be considered.

He glances back before dropping another explosive device in the large decorative planter along the wall. He says a silent prayer again that there are no innocent casualties. Sure, the explosions will be small – more flash and sound than anything else. The goal is not to hurt anyone, although that is always a possibility. But he doesn't want anyone innocent to get hurt in all of this. But he's no fool. He realizes in the ensuing panic, there is the chance that people will get trampled. There is the chance that they will hurt themselves. He hopes not. He doesn't want innocents hurt like that.

Afraid?

Yeah, he wants them all afraid – _everyone_ – good, bad, and innocent alike. He needs there to be authentic panic. And in the panic – caused by something Bracken and Markov and whoever else is involved do not expect – well, hopefully he will be able to root out his assassins – their assassins – and deal with them quickly and proactively.

And to stay alive.

 _ **Thursday afternoon - October 30, 2014, 6:27 p.m., at a hotel in Times Square, Near the Marriott**_

She exhales loudly, only now accepting that her body is running on fumes right now. She lies in the bed here in her room on the 27th floor, and she is exhausted, which says a lot given who she is and what she does.

Elena Markov had put her daughter, Anna, to bed earlier this morning – dear God was it only this morning? Just after midnight, she had tucked the youngster into bed, and taken a three hour nap herself before taking off for New York City, just after 3 a.m.

She drove back into Manhattan during those wee hours of the morning, leaving her daughter with the live-in nanny, getting back in plenty of time for her quick update with the Brackens.

After the meeting, she had perused through a couple of costume shops in the city before deciding – with great satisfaction – that she is simply going to go as a ninja assassin. Not very imaginative, but certainly highly-relevant.

"Cheesy," she says aloud, staring at the ceiling, admitting as such. Still, it is appropriate. She will be dressed all in black. She assumes that most of the people there will consider it a 'cool' outfit. More than anything else, however, it leaves her the maximum physical flexibility she needs for close-quarter combat.

She stares at the picture of young Anna on her phone, and puts the device down on the nightstand. She's just gotten off the phone with the young girl, and suddenly she is very tired. She had considered heading down the street a few blocks away to the local Friday's – she has developed a love for the breadsticks there, along with the sauce – the alcoholic barbeque sauce whose name escapes her. Jack something or other. But tonight she is just too tired to even leave her room. She knows her body, and it is screaming at her for a respite.

So, she gives in, shutting her light first, and then her eyes. Within seconds, her thoughts drift away. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges. For tonight, she allows images of Anna to fill her head, and she enters a long night's sleep with a smile on her face.

 **A/N:** Admittedly this is a slower chapter, but – as you will see in the next chapter – there were a couple of final things that needed to be put into place before the mayor's gala. See you then – and, as always, thanks to everyone for staying with this. Two more chapters to go and we are finished.


	19. Chapter 19

**Triumphant: Chapter 19**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Friday Evening - October 31, 2014, 7:12 p.m., at Mayor Weldon's Annual Halloween Gala**_

"Welcome, welcome, welcome," Mayor Bob Weldon half shouts into the microphone on the stage, at the east end of the Broadway Ballroom, getting the attention of the thousand-plus costumed-partygoers who are mingling with one another. The crowd erupts into polite cheers for the host of tonight's festivities. There is soft music playing from the speakers overhead, while the band stands behind Weldon, getting ready for their initial set.

"I'm glad all of you could make it this evening," he continues. "I always wanted to be president," he tells the crowd, eliciting comfortable and genuine laughter, as he is dressed in his George Washington garb, his traditional outfit for each of his Halloween parties.

"I'm honored actually, that each of you are here," he chuckles. "I know many of you have kids to take trick or treating. And if you're like me, some of you actually enjoy handing out candies to the little ones who are – likely at this very moment – visiting your doorstep. So let's not waste the night, or any more time, for that matter. Tonight's gala is officially started. Dinner will be coming out at 8:30 sharp. Until then, please - Enjoy yourselves. Drink, dance, donate to one of the charities listed along the front of the stage here, and . . . without further ado . . . let's get this party started!" he shouts, to a rousing and rising chorus of cheers.

The band immediately launches into an old Kool and the Gang song, 'Celebrate'. No, it's not exactly on the current hits billboard, but the average person at this soiree associates themselves much more with music from the 70's and 80's, and maybe a few years into the 90's – and that's what they will get tonight – in abundance.

Costumed couples begin to fill the center floor, dancing with arms raised and feet moving. The mayor smiles as he steps down from the stage, grabbing a drink from one of the wait-staff passing by and begins to mingle with his friends, peers, associates and colleagues. If, of course, he can recognize any of them in costume.

Forty-five minutes later, the party is in full swing, with costumed revelers enjoying themselves with the music and pre-dinner drinks and snacks provided. The mayor's ball, as always, is a rousing success. There are television cameras and media types along the edges of the room, capturing everything for the late news broadcast this evening.

At the south end of the ballroom, a couple is enjoying themselves at the edge of the dance floor. Annoying costume fabrics aside, Richard Castle is relishing something he has not been able to do with his new bride in . . . well, since they married. That is, enjoy an evening out, dancing in public, dining in public, not hiding.

Except, they still are hiding in a way. The costumes do their job – there is no way anyone who doesn't know them intimately is going to figure their identities, or so he thinks. He smiles down at the beautiful woman he knows is underneath the silver and olive-greenish helmet.

"Sexiest Boba Fett I have ever seen in my life," he whispers to her, placing his head next to her ear.

"Well, you would know, since you have one standing guard in your bathroom," she chuckles in response.

" _Our_ bathroom, bounty hunter," he corrects her. " _Our_ bathroom."

"I can't tell you how much I can't wait to get back to _our_ bathroom . . . and _our_ bedroom . . . on _our_ little castaway island," she purrs to him. "Of course, I'm more inclined to . . . to get busy . . . with the man underneath this little cat costume here as much as there."

"Hey," he replies with mock indignation as he gives his bride a twirl on the floor. "I'll have you know that I think I'm the hottest, most handsome Chewbacca here tonight."

"Castle, you're the _only_ Chewbacca here tonight," she corrects him, speaking softly so as to not draw any unwanted attention to them.

His response is a garbling warble that the original Chewbacca would be proud of, no less, bringing laughter to the bounty hunter in his arms.

"Okay, I have to admit," she smiles underneath the hood of her costume, "this is a lot more fun than I thought it would be."

Unbeknownst to them, only fifteen feet away, toward the middle of the floor, stands ex-Senator William and Elizabeth Bracken. Neither party notices the other, of course, in costume.

"I still think I should have come as Abraham Lincoln," Bracken tells his wife, brushing her arm with his white-bandaged hand. His mummy costume is the perfect disguise, as there is no part of his face or body showing. Elizabeth, on the other hand, is dressed as the bride of Frankenstein, complete with outlandish hair, white makeup, dark eyes and ruby red lips. It's an effective costume, as no one has picked her out yet.

"If that idiot can get away with being George Washington for a night, then I could have –"

"I _know_ you want to be president, Will," she interrupts, speaking low in a sexy growl. "But let's wait our turn . . . _and_ pick a president that actually survived an evening like tonight."

"Ah, point taken, mademoiselle," he agrees. He glances down at her, taking in her dark, made-up eyes and makes his decision.

"Just enjoy the evening, darling" he tells her, surprising her with the term of affection. It's been awhile since she has heard words like this from him – words that used to come fairly often. "How often do we get to do this?"

"Do what?" she asks.

"Relax. Enjoy the moment. Enjoy each other. No pretense. No speeches. No posturing," he continues. "At least until the fireworks start, the evening is all ours."

She smiles, leaning forward, briefly settling into his chest, and for a soft moment she remembers what drew her to William Bracken in the first place, decades ago in college. Her feet are moving with a mind of their own now as she breaks away – content to let the music take her – as he suggests.

No pretense. No posturing. Just a night away. For a little while.

Near the west side of the ballroom, Detective Kevin Ryan dances with his wife, Jenny. Rather, the Mad Hatter dances with Alice. It's a good costume, as the ballroom has – indeed – become their wonderland. Alice/Jenny is all smiles, enjoying a costumed ball for the first time in many, many years. For Kevin Ryan, however, he is trying to have a good time, sure, but he knows he is here only at his captain's request – and that's not a good thing. Truth be told, he would have rather left Jenny at home, given none of them know what is going to go down this evening. But Mrs. Kevin Ryan had other ideas.

His partner, Javier Esposito grins broadly, dressed as the Cheshire Cat and enjoying every minute of tonight's little get together. Sure, he knows that at any moment, the shit could hit the fan, so to speak. But his time in the U.S. Special Forces has taught him, long ago, to take life's small moments like this and treasure them. These times, these moments are far too infrequent, and more than often, far too brief.

"Enjoying yourself there, partner?" Ryan asks his friend, who is dancing with a beautiful woman.

"I am now," Esposito replies, gazing into his dancing partner's eyes, as the music slows down into a slower 1980's power ballad.

"I don't know why you are here, but I'm glad you are," Javier Esposito tells Lady Sapphire, one of Lady Irena's ladies from the House of Pain. Sapphire and Esposito have a history, one that began with a messy case solved by Beckett years ago. The dominatrix definitely left her mark on the man during that case. Usually nothing comes from a case like that – it is solved, and everyone moves on. Since then however, Esposito has secretly paid a few visits to that establishment over the past five years, specifically to see the woman who had captivated him to the point where he couldn't tie or untie a simple shoelace. The two have become friendly, but rarely outside of Irena's building. Tonight is a surprise for both of them.

"As am I," Sapphire offers agreeably. "I have to admit, I was a bit surprised when Irena offered me tickets for tonight. She usually comes on her own to these little events."

"Well, for whatever reason she opted to do something different tonight, I am grateful," Esposito remarks, as he takes her hand in his own, and pulls her closer. "Although I can tell that neither of you spent an awful lot of brain cycles wondering about your costumes," he laughs, glancing over at Sapphire's boss.

Both Sapphire, and Lady Irena, who is some twenty feet away, decided that their work clothes were probably the best costumes they could have selected – so both are in black dominatrix outfits consistent with their positions at her establishment. Irena finds herself entertaining a clearly-enraptured cartoon character, allowing herself to laugh demurely at the rapid fire jokes he tells, trying desperately to impress the black-clad woman in high boots with handcuffs on her waist.

Along the wall, over one hundred feet behind them stand Captain Victoria Gates and her husband, Herbert. Gates is dressed rather flamboyantly as the Queen of Hearts, staying with the theme with her two male detectives, while Herbert is dressed as a castle guard for the Queen – appropriate for both, no doubt. Each nibbles on a plate of hors d'oeuvres with a drink in hand.

Near the front of the room stands Jackson Hunt, comically garbed in a large, white Foghorn Leghorn costume, always his favorite cartoon character. He stands off to himself, occasionally interacting with a costumed person here and there. He knows he needs to mingle so that he won't stand out. He chuckles, immediately picking out his son and daughter-in-law. He knew the costumes they were coming in, but in his mind, he had them reversed. He would have bet money that his son would have been the bounty hunter – but he has to admit seeing a shapely Boba Fett is a treat for the evening. And she's getting a few looks herself, he notices. He files this away – as they don't want too many looks their way.

He's also noticing something else.

There are quite a few people here tonight dressed as cartoon characters – Warner Brothers cartoon characters specifically. There is a Bugs Bunny, and an Elmer Fudd. There is a Daffy Duck, and he's seen a Sylvester and a Tweety Bird – and from the looks of it, whoever is in the yellow Tweety costume can't be more than five foot four, five foot five tops.

There's a lot of them.

Too many.

Maybe in 1980 or 1990, this would have worked, it would have made sense. But in 2014? With the explosion of Nickelodeon characters? With the option for Family Guy or American Dad characters? No, there should be an abundance of _those_ characters. It's why he opted for the large white, abrasive rooster. There shouldn't be a lot of these cartoon icons here. His radar immediately engages.

Now he is noticing another thing.

Each of them is strategically spread apart. They aren't too close to one another other, but they don't allow too much distance between themselves either. And they don't seem to know each other. Or at least that's the impression they are trying to give. Glancing around, he counts them off in his head.

" _Now, what's the likelihood of having eight cartoon characters from the same shows here, and none of them know each other?"_ he asks himself silently. None of them are hanging out together. In fact, they seem to be making an effort to avoid one another, and ignore one another.

If nothing else, you'd think they would approach one another out sheer curiosity. Which is exactly what he is going to do, he decides.

As he approaches Bugs Bunny, he notices something else, and it temporarily chills his bones.

They are advancing around the ballroom in a mounted wedge formation.

" _They are looking for someone,"_ he realizes. The chances of eight strangers who are not together just 'happening' to fall into such a precise, mobile military formation is . . . well, impossible. This is definitely by design. Five more steps, and he is standing next to Bugs Bunny, who is eyeing him, face-to-face.

"Ah say, Ah say, nice ears there, son," Jackson offers amiably in a good Foghorn dialect that would make his son proud.

"Do I know you?" the large rabbit asks, not even bothering to go into role playing.

"No, No," Jackson replies, staying in character. "Pay attention there, boy, I'm just trying to be social," he continues, allowing himself to trip slightly into the man, spilling a bit of his Jack Daniels and coke on the costume.

"Hey, watch it there!" a now quickly-perturbed Eddie 'the Duke' Blake retorts, catching his balance while catching the annoying large rooster. "Be on your way, dude," he warns as he turns away, looking to catch up with the rest of his crew, as they work their way through the room, across the dance floor. However, the 'accidental' fall has given Hunt the information he needs. He now realizes that the large rabbit is packing, having felt the gun along the man's waist.

At the same time, a dancing Javier Esposito and Lady Sapphire have made their way over towards her boss, who is still engaged in a conversation with a large Elmer Fudd character.

Sammy Molina, in the Fudd costume, sees Sapphire approaching, and chooses this moment to end his joking time with Irena. He needs to be moving on with the formation. Molina has frequented Irena's House of Pain, and likes the woman. He leans in and whispers – at least he thinks he is whispering. Unfortunately for him, and fortunately for Javier Esposito, the mask he wears muffles his voice, forcing him to talk loud enough for Javier to hear.

"It isn't safe for you here, tonight," he tells the dominatrix. "I'd move on if I were you," he continues, satisfied when her suddenly enlarged eyes tell him she has gotten the message. As has the Cheshire Cat standing alongside Lady Sapphire.

"Just a second, Maria," Esposito offers to his dancing companion, using her real name, and then quickly turns his body away. He touches a button under his chin, activating the wireless mouthpiece which is actually an extension of one of his whiskers.

"Yo, trouble guys," he speaks into the mouthpiece. "One of these cartoon characters just told Irena to clear out – told her it wasn't safe."

"Which one?" he hears Jackson Hunt ask in his ear. Each of them – Gates and her three detectives along with Castle – can hear what Hunt is saying. And what Esposito has just said is confirming what he is thinking about the all of the cartoons here.

"The big doofy Elmer Fudd," Esposito remarks.

"Good," Hunt replies. "Listen up, everyone. The cartoons here – Warner Brother types – they are our bad guys. When this thing starts, they will be your targets."

"Have you found Elena yet?" Kate Beckett asks into the small wire in her helmet.

"Not yet, Kate," he tells her. "But there's a thousand people here, so this may take a little more time. Regardless, is everyone ready? The cartoons will be our targets. Everyone clear?"

"Got it," Castle replies.

"Yep," Kate chimes in.

"Roger that," Esposito replies.

"Me, too," claims Kevin Ryan.

"Understood," Captain Victoria Gates replies also.

Suddenly, Richard Castle stops in his tracks, his blood running cold, as he hears an unexpected sixth confirmation that should not be here – who is supposed to be safe at home.

"I hear you, Grandpa," Alexis replies.

"Alexis!" her father hisses into his mouthpiece. "What are you doing here!?"

"Hi Daddy," Alexis almost whimpers, now wondering if she has made a mistake of epic proportions in defying her father.

Before either can reply, the next words from Jackson Hunt focuses everyone back to the present.

"Uh, guys," Hunt begins. "We have a problem," he tells his teammates on the floor. Seconds ago, he noticed that the cartoon characters in question had turned their heads his way. Now they have all shifted, and are now all making their way towards him, staying tightly in formation. He notices a large yellow bird character pointing a finger his way.

"I've been made," he tells the group. "I need to move up the timetable."

"Are you certain, Mr. Hunt?" Victoria Gates asks, now moving her husband out of the way, toward the stairwell on the western corridors.

"I've got a cast of characters heading my way," Hunt replies calmly. "Everyone knows what to do. Alexis, get out of here!"

"Alexis, where are you?!" a frantic Richard Castle almost screams into his mouthpiece.

"Over near the punchbowls on the right side of the ballroom!" she replies loudly. "I'm the female Klingon!"

"The right side? Right side?" Kate questions. "That depends on your bearings. East or west, Alexis, East or west?" she asks, searching left and right for the young woman.

"Uh . . . that would be . . . the east side of the room, with the large Halloween banner on the wall, with the flying witches," Alexis responds, now becoming more nervous herself.

" _Dear God, what was I thinking?"_ she asks herself, trying to calm her suddenly inflated nerves.

"I see you! I see you!" Kevin Ryan yells, as he ushers his wife, Jenny, toward the same stairwell that Herbert Gates is moving towards. Hunt hasn't told them his full plan. He's only told them the two escape routes that will be open to them, once everything starts.

"Okay, guys, I'm out of time," he tells the group, as the Sylvester the Cat and Tweety Bird characters are now less than ten yards away, and quickening their pace.

"Dad, wait!" Castle screams, but it is too late.

The first explosions takes out the two stairwells on the southeast and northeast side of the ballroom. The easily anticipated pandemonium in the ballroom explodes with the first small incendiary devices planted yesterday by Jackson Hunt. The band stops play in mid-chord, and the lead singer is too stunned to give instructions to the audience. Instead, the only words that leave is mouth are "holy shit", which, of course, does nothing to calm the panic that is already swelling.

The second explosion takes out the dual escalators behind the elevators on the western side. That leaves everyone with only three options for escape. The southwest and northwest stairways, and anyone foolish enough to wait for an elevator during explosions. The fourth and final escape route is eliminated, when the party-goers hear and see the explosions outside on the balcony.

"Everyone, please! Please stay calm," Mayor Bob Weldon intones in the microphone on stage. He has rushed onto the stage and pushed the singers out of the way, and is trying to bring some type of order to the room."

"Everyone, the back stairs on the west side – move towards the stairs in an orderly –"

His next words are drowned out, as the final explosions take out the two spotlights on the floor, on either side of the stage. The concussion knocks the mayor backwards, off his feet, and his lands near the elaborate and just-abandoned drum set.

Jackson Hunt is smiling underneath his large white rooster costume, as he watches his previously confident and proficient attackers now panicking themselves, their heads moving from side to side. A couple of them have removed their headpieces, and all of them are now brandishing hidden handguns.

"Showtime, my friend," he tells Sylvester – still in costume – and points a large, unsilenced handgun at the large man in the cat costume, and pulls the trigger.


	20. Chapter 20

**Triumphant: Chapter 20**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Friday Evening - October 31, 2014, 8:27 p.m., at Mayor Weldon's Annual Halloween Gala**_

The multiple explosions have rocked the Broadway Ballroom, and pure pandemonium has set in with the formerly festive patrons at the mayor's ball. The first thing on every person's mind is – of all things – a number.

10/31.

It's kind of like 9/11, only a new date. A new terror. The media will have a field day for months with this one.

It should simply be Halloween. For roughly five or six thousand people, however - New Yorkers at the party, guests in the hotel, and hotel staff – those numbers will never be associated with trick or treat again.

Richard Castle is one of those people, and right now, he is solely concerned with finding his daughter. She's the only one not 'in character' with the others. He had insisted she sit this out, once they began to suspect that this could become the climactic moment of the last few months. Alexis, however, had taken her invitation and stashed it away – and chosen a costume that would completely hide her, completely distort her features. She has almost lost her father once, and there was no way she was allowing him to walk into this without her. He would just have to understand.

Hiding in her Klingon outfit, she had actually passed by her father and his wife twice at the ball, without any recognition registering with Richard Castle, who had actually smiled at her as she passed by, far too busy enjoying his time with Kate Beckett to offer a second glance.

Those fanciful moments are long gone now, as the explosions have launched the entire ballroom of costumed celebrators into a full retreat, and also spurred Silent Benny's crew into action.

They were waiting for the signal from their boss. The explosions and hysteria served as signal enough.

The plan from Silent Benny was to wait until dinner was brought out, and people were seated, eating, relaxing. The cartoon characters would stand – each at different tables and head toward the elevators before opening fire. Once they had exhausted their ammunitions, they would head toward the escalators and head up one floor. From there, they would take the elevators up to the tenth floor and into the room right off the elevators, where their normal clothes were stashed. From there, they would exit – normal guests, slightly panicked at whatever is going on downstairs.

This of course, would occur once they had 'made' Richard Castle and his family. They were the primary targets, and their instructions were clear – take as many innocent bystanders as you can, in order to make the Castles' deaths appear to be random – just bad luck – wrong place at the wrong time.

At least that had been Silent Benny's plan.

The explosions obviously have accelerated his plan, as the panic level has escalated, and Mayor Weldon's party-goers now realize they are literally running for their lives. The audio blast from Jackson Hunt's weapon has literally put the fear of God into the hastily moving crowd. Sylvester the Cat went down in a heap, blood gushing from the fatal wound to his head, meshing with the black and white fabric of his costume.

His partner, Tweety Bird found himself frozen in time, a fatal split second of indecision on the part of the assaulting crew member as the second report from Jackson Hunt's large handgun booms throughout the front end of ballroom. A sickening maroon color begins mixing with the bright yellow costume headpiece as a second thug flies backward, hitting the floor.

Jackson Hunt is in motion now, crouched low and moving quickly, as the remaining six cartoons have ripped themselves out of their shocked states, and are now training weapons on the CIA man. Fortunately for Hunt – and unfortunately for the rest of the crowd here tonight – Eddie the Duke takes this moment as the opportunity to issue commands to his remaining crew members, and suddenly they turn their attention – and their weapons – to the rest of the costumed partiers who are now in full retreat.

Throughout the ballroom, people start dropping – most with gunshot wounds to their backs as they are fleeing toward the stairwells, and now they have a second reason to retreat. Unfortunately, the gunshots push the crowd forward, and now the literal pile-up of humanity at the elevators and stairwells finally spills over, as simple physics takes control. One person falls, another stumbles, three more get trampled in a cascading waterfall of falling arms and legs and heads – and now there is a full-on riot, with people screaming in pain and panic as there is no physical way for everyone to get out simultaneously.

And ex-Senator William Bracken and is wife are two of those unfortunates.

"What in the hell has just happened?!" Bracken screams at his wife. "Was this part of the plan?" Both of his hands clutch his thigh, where a large patch of red continues to grow where he was hit by a bullet.

"Of course it isn't," she screams in response, as the two of them cower on the floor up against a large ice sculpture of bespectacled Harry Potter, holding his wand outward.

"Who set those explosions?" he bellows. "Elena? And where in the hell is she?"

"Shut up, Will, and get your head down, dammit," Elizabeth hisses, as she watches a costumed Bit-O-Honey candy bar fall forward, a gunshot wound in its back. The look of terror in her eyes is evident to her husband, who quickly realizes that this is not a part of her plan in the least. From her vantage point of relative safety – only because Silent Benny's crew knows to steer clear of the Mummy and Frankenstein's bride – she watches with horror at the carnage that unfolds before her. Fifty feet away, she sees a large Daffy Duck character fall backwards, clearly the victim of a close-range gunshot. Sure enough, the report from Jackson Hunt's large weapons reaches her ears.

Her eyes scan the ballroom and now she is noticing a couple of Alice in Wonderland characters who are not retreating, not panicked. Instead, these two – no – these three seem to be hunting themselves, searching out the perpetrators. One, dressed like the Queen of Hearts, seems injured herself.

Meanwhile, a highly agitated Richard Castle has finally found his daughter. She has been trying to make her way towards the back of the room towards the elevators and stairwells there, as instructed. However, the sudden crushing of humanity has slowed her efforts, and the large Chewbacca has been bulling his way through the crowd in an attempt to reach his daughter.

The problem is, once the explosions begin, Richard Castle had experienced a momentary second or two of pure panic. Unfortunately, those seconds passed, but his panic has been replaced by something far worse. The writer has flashed back to the island – a faraway, fury burning through his eyes. With every step, in his mind he is not in this ballroom in the heart of Times Square. No, in his mind, he is back in the brush of the Tangier Island that was his prison. The fence is down, and the roar of screams is not from people, but instead, the roar of twin lions, hungry and on the prowl. The explosions cause him to look upward, searching the sky for the chopper that undoubtedly will drop another unfortunate soul to death by dismemberment at the hands – or rather – paws of the large cats.

He unsheathes the large sword that he has brought with him – deciding earlier that his version of Chewbacca is going to be doubly-armed with a very useless blaster gun, courtesy of Mr. Donnelly's workshop, along with a very real and dangerous sword. He uses the butt end of the sword in his left hand to clear a path for himself – panic and bile rising in his throat as he can feel the large cats getting closer. He has already ditched the costume's headpiece, allowing himself more freedom to see and find Alexis – but it also makes him an easier target to identify.

Suddenly he sees some joker in a Yosemite Sam costume raise a handgun with a silencer and aims it directly at – his daughter!

Silent Benny raises his silenced weapon at Alexis – he has heard her father screaming her name and noticed the small Klingon turn her head to and fro, searching for the voice. Her recognition of her father's voice is her unfortunate, and soon-to-be-fatal mistake.

Benny's task is simple – kill Castle, Beckett and his daughter. And it appears his daughter is within his grasp. And her father will be next.

Alexis shoots her weapon – a toy blaster gun that makes a high-pitched vrooming sound. She's just trying to buy herself some time to get away. Benny laughs his silent laugh, as he sneers at the toy weapon. But before he can fire his own gun, he takes an involuntary step forward, launched ahead by the large, sharp point that suddenly sticks out almost two feet from his chest. His gun falls to the ground, his eyes wide. Suddenly the sharp point disappears just as quickly, and the man falls to the ground, revealing Richard Castle, sword in hand, standing behind him, having run the weapon through the mobster from behind.

The look on her father's face freezes Alexis, frightening her. She has never seen him look like this, and she has certainly never seen him take a life. It is a brutal side that scares her witless. But Kate – who has finally caught up with him - recognizes the look. She knows this look. It's the look she saw on him for months after his escape from the island. She immediately realizes that he is no longer here with them. He is back on that damnable island, trying to escape, as he did in his nightmares. Only now, he has a sword in his hand.

He turns to his left, then right, now looking for more adversaries, before lunging forward and grabbing his daughter's hand.

"Let's go!" He tells her, anxious to get her to safety, get them to safety, before the lions appear again. They are so close.

"Hurry! They won't be far behind, Alexis," he yells at her. "Move!"

Fire on lower floors are ensuring that elevators are not used. Explosions in the stairwell have eliminated that route, turning it into an obstacle course of sorts – but it is still an option.

Elena Markov has taken off her black mask, and now she sees Jackson Hunt – their eyes meet. He, too, has discarded his bulky headpiece. He glances at the doorway leading to the stairwell. He won't make it. He realizes this. So he turns, and walks toward the Russian, and she mimics his movement, drawing closer to him.

The long sword remains in his hands as he pushes his way through the throng. Out of the corner of his eye, daughter in tow, Richard Castle passes Kate Beckett, who is pulling a wounded Victoria Gates along her side. She motions him toward the doorway. They are stepping over bodies now, it is a bloodbath, pandemonium has set in, and everyone – on both sides as well as bystanders are rushing to get out. A sudden shiny glare to his left catches Castle's eye, and he sees Elena Markov approaching his father. She wields a long sword in her right hand, but keeps it at her side as she walks.

He immediately swings his daughter toward Esposito and Ryan who are now alongside Kate.

"Get her out of here!" he yells, and turns back sprinting through the jungle in his mind. He is leaping over bodies now, as he leapt over brush just a few months back. He brings his sword high as he approaches. Elena sees him coming, and easily parries his first thrust with her own sword.

"Interesting," she muses aloud, as she hears a high-pitched scream.

"Daddy, no!"

"Ah, that would be your daughter, Mr. Castle," Elena tells him, as she swings her sword quickly, testing how he will defend. He parries easily, while she immediately launches herself airborne, executing a one hundred eighty degree a spin which ends with the side of her foot connecting with the head of a very stunned Jackson Hunt.

Seeing his style after a few lunges and parries, she glances over at the young girl being dragged away, and sees the detective coming.

Without warning, she feints perfectly, before a quick strike pushes her blade directly through Richard Castle. The searing pain knocks his head backward, his eyes widening, bringing him back to the present. He is no longer in the jungle, on the island, being chased. No, he is in the ballroom, run through with a sword. He falls to his knees, and faintly hears the screams from his wife and daughter. His wife's screams are closer, much closer. And getting closer still.

"Your same shoulder," Elena tells him, looking at her sword that she has left inside the writer, as she has quickly pulled out a silenced pistol and points it at the detective. She quickly turns and offers a single shot at Jackson Hunt, who is groggily getting to his feet. It hits him in the thigh, driving him back downward.

"There has been enough death here this night," she tells Kate in Russian, spinning back towards the detective, her weapon pointed at her now. She knows the detective speaks Russian and has chosen this moment to speak the language as she figures – correctly – that it will give Kate pause. Elena uses the hesitation to quickly bring the pistol across Kate's forehead, opening a gash as the detective falls backward. Elena sprints quickly across the floor, heading for the stairwell. Elena knew of the Bracken's plan, knew of the cartoon characters they had employed to their own nefarious ends. But the explosions? That was a surprise. And she sees only two logical explanations.

One – that Hunt, the man she has just left incapacitated, has orchestrated the explosions. That is logical, but in her mind, unlikely. Would he intentionally put his son, his granddaughter – and their friends – in jeopardy? Perhaps.

Two – that Elizabeth Bracken orchestrated the explosions, in an attempt to clean the ledger, eliminate any loose ends. Loose ends like Elena Markov. Would she do this? Perhaps.

Both are plausible, and in the ensuing chaos, the Russian has reassessed tonight's assignment, and made the decision that a strategic retreat is preferable to standing an fighting a battle where the fences have been removed, where he targets are now unclear, and the comrades even less so. She also has decided that random, wanton violence that ends up with scores of innocents dead is not a part of her mission. As she departs, she offers a quick shot at a large Bugs Bunny character, who quickly falls first to his knees, and then face-forward into the ballroom floor.

Kate, from her knees, opens up with her pistol, firing two quick shots at the departing assassin, but there are too many people at the stairwell and she can't risk another shot and hitting a bystander. She moves to Castle, fear in her eyes as she takes in the long weapon stick through his shoulder.

"Go get her detective," Hunt gasps, and Castle hurriedly nods his head up and down as he slumps from his knees to his side on the floor.

"I'm not leaving you," she tells him adamantly, but he shakes his head vigorously from side to side. "Alexis . . . stairway," he manages, as she chokes back tears. It's an unfair choice. Stay with her husband, and risk his daughter, or go after the assassin to make sure his daughter stays safe.

It's no choice at all.

The tears in her eyes burn, as does the anger rising quickly inside her as she pulls herself up, wiping the blood away that pours into her left eye from the gash on her forehead.

While everyone is screaming and making their way downstairs, Elena heads up toward the higher floors, where she can catch an elevator up to the top floors. From there, she can access the rooftop with the key she has lifted. She will call for the Care Flight chopper and make her way to one of the hospitals. Getting shot wasn't in the plan, and now she is adjusting. She makes it up two flights of stairs before she falls, succumbing to the two bullets that have hit her in her upper back.

Kate pursues, getting to the stairwell, but her keen eyes catch the blood trail heading up, not down.

"I knew I hit you," she says aloud, taking the steps two by two heading upward. She turns the corner up the stairs and finds the assassin lying across the stairs on her back, with her weapon pointed at her. Elena fires, hitting Kate in the forearm just above the wrist. Kate screams out, dropping her weapon. Bent over, she gazes up, holding her arm, and sees Elena's gun trained on her head.

"Uh uh uh, Detective," Elena grunts, waving her handgun back and forth, indicating Kate should not try to reach her weapon.

"I guess I owe you for the presents you left in my back," Elena tells her after a few seconds.

"I owe you for a lot more than that," Kate tells her.

"Well, I did save your life once," Elena chuckles, and in the catastrophic irony of the moment, Kate finds herself bent over in pain, chuckling with the assassin.

"How bad is it?" Kate finally asks. "You're not going to just sit there and bleed out, are you?"

"Not an option," Elena tells her, and something in the woman's eyes tells Kate that she is not kidding. This is where it is probably going to end for her. In a damp stairwell, with the sounds of screaming and carnage clearly audible from a couple of flight down.

The two women eye one another for another ten seconds, then twenty, before Elena speaks again.

"Come here, Detective," she motions to Kate with her gun. Kate hesitates, obviously, but the Russian demands her to move by pointing the weapon at her legs.

"Don't make me shoot you again, Detective," Elena tells her. She blinks quickly, taking in a breath as Kate slowly makes her way toward the woman. Elena – with the gun still trained on Kate – begins to unzip her outfit from the neck down to just below her breasts, which are covered by a sports bra. She notices two red spots high on her chest and shoulder.

"Through and through," Kate comments.

"Twice," Elena agrees. "Nice shot."

She motions Kate to come closer, and Kate is now standing over the assassin. She kneels next to the woman.

"Inner pocket sleeve," Elena tells her. When Kate hesitates, Elena laughs.

"What, do you think I wanted to wait to get you right next to me before killing you?" For the second time in the last few minutes, the two adversaries share a chuckle as Kate reaches inside the outfit, somehow careful not to touch the woman's wounds. She can see the woman's eyes start to glaze.

Kate pulls out a small hard paper, and looks at the address that is written on the paper. A quizzical frown forms on her face, and turns the paper over. It's a picture of a small girl, a beautiful young girl, and Kate's heart begins to pound.

" _No, no, no,"_ she thinks to herself, before Elena confirms it for her.

"My daughter, Detective," Elena tells her. "I saved your life. You owe me a life. _Her_ life," she tells her, pointing at the picture.

"Her name is Anna. She will be in danger," Elena continues, and coughs once, spitting up blood and sending jolts of pain through her body. She realizes she does not have much longer. Her hand falls to her side, still holding the handgun. Kate could easily take it, were she so inclined. She is stunned, however, staring at the young girl – who she knows – is likely getting ready to be orphaned.

"The father?" Kate asks. "Where do I take her?"

"Her father cannot have her," Elena hisses. "My daughter will not have her for a step-mother."

"Who?" Kate asks. "Who are you talking –"

"Bracken," Elena tells her, as Kate drops the picture to the ground. "Her father is William Bracken," and suddenly a number of pieces fall into place for Kate Beckett.

"I can't," Kate tells her, shaking her head from side to side, starting to back away. Elena stops her with her right hand, grabbing Kate quickly by the throat. Her grip is strong, momentarily, but Kate can see that it is taking the last ounce of strength the woman has.

"Promise me," Elena says, her voice quivering and weakening with her request.

"I can't take his daughter and –"

"She is not _his_ daughter, Detective," Elena now whispers. "She is _mine_."

Kate slowly pries the woman's hand away from her throat, careful to watch her left hand that still holds a firm grip on the handgun.

"I . . . Elena, I can't," Kate begins, surprised by the wetness developing in her eyes. "I have killed you. Killed her mother. That's too great a secret. I would –"

"You did not kill me, Detective," Elena tells her, and for a second, the Russian smiles the most beautiful smile Kate has ever seen. "I have been dead for a long time now."

It happens in slow motion – but still too quickly for Kate to react. Elena's left hand rises upward and points the silenced weapon toward her own forehead. Kate's mouth is open but no sound comes out as the weapon whispers quickly, jolting the assassin's head sideways, leaving only Kate Beckett and the hurried sound of her own breathing in the stairwell, the screams from downstairs now a distant memory.

 **A/N:** Just the epilogue left, which I have posted simultaneously with this chapter.


	21. Chapter 21

**Triumphant: EPILOGUE**

 **DISCLAIMER:** Most of these characters are not mine at all, but they are memorable. Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. The others? Yeah, they're mine

 _ **Tuesday Morning – November 4, 2014, 10:47 a.m., at a small cemetery in Brooklyn, New York**_

Kate Beckett stands over the new gravesite, glancing upward, watching the thunderclouds as they slowly begin to roll in from the northwest. The large mound of dirt and grass, newly poured just last night, hide the resting place of one of the more feared assassins from the European continent. No one will know who she was, or how she died. There is no headstone yet, but when it arrives, it will be simple – unlike the complex woman who now calls this place home.

Kate glances down at the young girl, taking in her long, dark hair and large, expressive eyes. Eyes that were filled with tears this past weekend, but now are glazed and haunted. She bites a quivering lip, realizing that she knows that look on the youngster's face. She knows it very well. She has lived it for more than half of her life.

She glances beyond the eyes to the little girls' small hands. Anna's left hand clenches Kate's right hand tightly while the young girl's right hand is firmly entrenched inside the left hand of Alexis Castle. Behind the three stands Richard Castle, giving a bit of space to the women.

Kate's mind travels back to a few days ago, just this past Saturday afternoon in Boston, where she had limped northward to visit the small girl.

 _ **A Few Days ago - Saturday Afternoon – November 1, 2014, 12:33 p.m., at modest home in Boston**_

 _Andrea Worthings walks calmly to the front door, where the doorbell has been ringing. She did not hear from Elena Markov last night, and given the news coming out of New York last night and all through the morning, she already has a suspicion of what this means. When she opens the door and sees Detective Kate Beckett standing there alone, her suspicions are confirmed. Her hand immediately rushes to cover the gasp escaping from her lips, and her eyes well with tears._

 _Kate looks downward, unable to meet the woman's eyes for a brief instant before the last moments of a very complex woman pass in front of her eyes yet again, giving her the strength she needs for this morning._

" _May I come in?" she asks. "I suspect you already know why I am here."_

" _Did she die well?" Andrea asks her, a single tear now falling down her cheek, stunning Kate with the question's simplicity._

" _Better than I ever could," Kate acknowledges. "She died thinking of her daughter," she tells her truthfully. "How much do you know?"_

" _I know everything?" the live-in sitter tells her. "My name is Andrea. Andrea Worthings. I have known Elena for . . . for a long time," she tells Kate._

" _Well, Andrea, I don't think she was thinking clearly in the end," Kate begins. "She asked me to come here, to take Anna. I think it was because I was there when she . . . and she was –"_

" _You could not be more wrong, Detective," Andrea tells her, ushering her to a chair at a small table off the kitchen. "This was not a random or unconsidered request she gave you."_

" _What do you mean?" Kate asks, now confused. "And why are you not surprised to see me?" Kate asks, only now realizing this for herself._

" _Because if she was ever killed, my instructions were to seek you out if you did not come here first," Andrea tells her, dropping yet another shoe of surprise on the detective. Kate winces as she unconsciously moves her injured arm in the sling toward her face._

" _You can't be serious," she manages to say._

" _You can't imagine that I would find reason to jest on this day, given these circumstances," Andrea replies._

 _Kate stares down at her feet, sitting and leaning forward in the chair before she raises her eyes to meet Andrea, face to face._

" _Why?" she manages to ask._

" _Because Elena knew you far better than you know yourself, Detective," Andrea begins. "She knew that if there was one person who would understand what Anna is now feeling, it would be you. And she realized also that if there was one person who could help Anna through this for the rest of her childhood and adolescence, it would be you."_

" _But-" Kate protests, but is interrupted by the nanny._

" _If there was one person who would understand – first hand – the way not to raise Anna given her new circumstances, it would be you. And if there is one person who can help you find closure to you losing your own mother, it is Anna," Andrea continues, and watches Kate's widening eyes._

" _Elena decided long ago, Detective . . . a few years ago, in fact, that if anything happened to her, you were her first and only choice to raise her daughter. And under no circumstances can Anna go to her father. Elizabeth Bracken will never raise Elena's girl. Under no circumstances."_

 _Kate is silent, struggling to take this new information in. Andrea senses this, and continues._

" _Would you honestly, Detective, just walk out of this house, and leave this girl alone in the world?"_

" _But why me? Why not you? You are the one who –"_

" _Detective, hold your tongue for a moment," Andrea tells her. "I am but a nanny, with limited means. Yes, Elena has paid me well. But since Anna was two years old – and she is now five – Elena has been very clear in her instructions for young Anna. I will not insult her memory by even suggesting that I know better how to raise her daughter than she did herself. And these were her very clear wishes."_

 _ **Tuesday Morning – November 4, 2014, 10:50 a.m., back at the cemetery in Brooklyn, New York**_

Young Anna tightens her grip on the two hands that hold hers. She hears the rumbling of thunder in the distance and smiles.

"Mommy likes . . . Mommy liked thunder," she says softly aloud, to neither woman in particular.

"So do I, pumpkin," Alexis replies softly, drawing a small smile and glistening eyes from her father, who is just within earshot behind them.

"Are you ready, Anna?" Kate asks, glancing down at the beautiful little girl.

"Did you know my Mommy?" Anna asks, looking up at Kate. It's a question Kate has been expecting, waiting for, for three days now.

"I knew her very well, Anna," Kate tells her. "She saved my life once," she offers the young girl truthfully. It has the desired effect, as Anna offers the first hint of a smile – the first since she received the news that her mother was not coming back home.

"I'm glad she did," Anna tells her. "Otherwise you wouldn't be here, and I would be alone," she tells her with the pure logic of a five year old. Both women tighten their grips on little Anna's hands, stifling tears as the foursome turn away from the gravesite and slowly make their way away, towards the entrance of the cemetery.

 _ **Thursday Afternoon – November 6, 2014, 4:42 p.m., at the Downtown Manhattan Heliport on Pier 6**_

Ex-Senator and soon-to-be-Governor William Bracken, and his wife make their way through the small crowd at the heliport. He has just finished a rousing speech downtown, introducing his new policy platform to fight crime and terrorism in New York, and specifically in New York City. The city has now, in less than fifteen years, seen two horrific terroristic events – one that claimed the lives of thousands, and another than claimed the lives of just under a hundred. Political reasoning aside, the future governor has postulated today that terror is terror, no matter the circumstances. Sometimes fighting terror means giving up certain liberties that Americans hold dear.

One week ago, such a speech, such a stance or platform would have cost him the election. Today? It all but assures a landslide win, as the tall, formidable man had limped away from the podium, a cane supporting him.

"Good luck Governor," a woman shouts – in prediction – at the passing couple as they exit the interior of heliport and walk toward the waiting chopper that will whisk them to a newly-purchased beach home in the Hamptons.

"A good day," Elizabeth quips as she waves politely to the New Yorkers who recognize the couple. They board the chopper, waving at the tall African-American pilot who sits in the cockpit seat.

"All aboard," he smiles. "Next stop, the Hamptons."

They sit down, pulling over the shoulder harnesses to strap themselves in, and seconds later, the helicopter quickly rises high in the sky, banking over the East River north of Staten Island. The chopper banks and heads southeast. Minutes later they are flying over Brooklyn, as the couple hold hands, and stare out of the chopper at the suburbs below. Both set their heads back, closing their eyes, enjoying the quick trip.

Another couple of minutes pass and suddenly they are over water again – heading straight southeast into the Atlantic Ocean.

"What the hell!" Bracken barks aloud as he opens his eyes minutes later feeling the chopper descending quickly, and sees nothing but ocean waters. Waters that are getting closer and closer to them.

Elizabeth snaps her eyes open and screams suddenly as she notices the same scene as her husband – only something else. They no longer have a pilot.

The screaming couple tighten their grips on one another, offering prayers and curses as the chopper hits the ocean waters, and breaks apart on impact, leaving small pieces of debris, but the larger pieces begin to sink.

A little over a mile away, Major Terrance Cooper floats in the water in his life vest, watching his rescue chopper approach less than half a mile away. Within minutes, he is out of the water, pulling himself inside the second chopper from the rope ladder. He glances down at the wreckage as they pass over head, and see two floating bodies atop the water, face down.

"Get us out of here, Walter," Jackson Hunt tells their pilot, shaking hands with Major Cooper, who shivers under a couple of blankets provided by the CIA man.

"We done?" Cooper asks.

"Oh yeah, my friend," Hunt replies. "It is finally over."

 **A/N:** Thanks to everyone for sticking through all three stories of this trilogy. It took a little longer to get out than I anticipated, for that I apologize. Personally, thanks to all of you who have taken the time to send wishes and thoughts to me over the past few months. Your wishes and prayers – and just the fact that you took the time to say anything at all – well, it means far more than you can ever realize. GeekMom, Perspex13, C-Miniscule, kwarner, Manxkid, TorontoSun, lifesamsystery, BigKahuna, kato769, Barry Ween and stockman – all of your personal messages (PM) have been lifesavers to me. To all who have reviewed my stories over the past couple of years, and followed and favorited stories – thank you. Without readers, stories are nothing but blank pages with ink. God bless you all, truly.


End file.
